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THAT    FORTUNE.      A 
Novel.      By    CHARLES 
DUDLEY  WARMER.     Author  of 
"A  Little  Journey  in  the  World  " 
"The  Golden  House"  etc.,  etc. 


NEW  YORK  &  LONDON :    HARPER  &  BROTHERS 
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BY   THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


THE  PEOPLE  FOR  WHOM  SHAKESPEARE  WROTE. 
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THE  RELATION  OF  LITERATURE  TO  LIFE.  Post 
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Mr.  Warner  has  such  a  fine  fancy,  such  a  clever  way  of 
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NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS. 


Copyright,  1899,  by  HARPER  £  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


THAT    FOETUNE 


Rh 

A- 


THAT    FORTUNE 


CHAPTER  I 

ON  a  summer  day,  long  gone  among  the  sum 
mer  days  that  come  but  to  go,  a  lad  of  twelve 
years  was  idly  and  recklessly  swinging  in  the 
top  of  a  tall  hickory,  the  advance  picket  of  a 
mountain  forest.  The  tree  was  on  the  edge  of  a 
steep  declivity  of  rocky  pasture  -  land  that  fell 
rapidly  down  to  the  stately  chestnuts,  to  the 
orchard,  to  the  cornfields  in  the  narrow  valley, 
and  the  maples  on  the  bank  of  the  amber  river, 
whose  loud,  unceasing  murmur  came  to  the  lad 
on  his  aerial  perch  like  the  voice  of  some  tra 
dition  of  nature  that  he  could  not  understand. 

He  had  climbed  to  the  topmost  branch  of  the 
lithe  and  tough  tree  in  order  to  take  the  full 
swing  of  this  free  creature  in  its  sport  with  the 
western  wind.  There  was  something  exhilarat 
ing  in  this  elemental  battle  of  the  forces  that 
urge  and  the  forces  that  resist,  and  the  harder 


M22198 


THAT  FORTUNE 

the  wind  blew*  and  the  wider  circles  he  took  in 
the  free  air,  the  'more  stirred  the  boy  was  in  the 
spring;  of  .his  life,  JvTature  was  taking  him  by 
the 'hand,  ancf'it  might  be  that  in  that  moment 
ambition  was  born  to  achieve  for  himself,  to 
conquer. 

If  you  had  asked  him  why  he  was  there,  he 
would  ver}^  likely  have  said,  "  To  see  the  world." 
It  was  a  world  worth  seeing.  The  prospect 
might  be  limited  to  a  dull  eye,  but  not  to  this 
lad  who  loved  to  climb  this  height,  in  order  to 
be  with  himself  and  indulge  the  dreams  of  youth. 
Any  pretence  would  suffice  for  taking  this  hour 
of  freedom  :  to  hunt  for  the  spicy  checker  -  ber 
ries  and  the  pungent  sassafras  ;  to  aggravate  the 
woodchucks,  who  made  their  homes  in  mys 
terious  passages  in  this  gravelly  hill-side  ;  to 
get  a  nosegay  of  columbine  for  the  girl  who 
spelled  against  him  in  school  and  was  his  gentle 
comrade  morning  and  evening  along  the  river 
road  where  grew  the  sweet-flag  and  the  snap 
dragon  and  the  barberry  bush ;  to  make  friends 
with  the  elegant  gray  squirrel  and  the  lively  red 
squirrel  and  the  comical  chipmunk,  who  were 
not  much  afraid  of  this  unarmed  naturalist. 
They  may  have  recognized  their  kinship  to  him, 
for  he  could  climb  like  any  squirrel,  and  not  one 
of  them  could  have  clung  more  securely  to  this 
bough  where  he  was  swinging,  rejoicing  in  the 

2 


THAT    FORTUNE 

strength  of  his  lithe,  compact  little  body.  When 
he  shouted  in  pure  enjoyment  of  life,  they  chat 
tered  in  reply,  and  eyed  him  with  a  primeval 
curiosity  that  had  no  fear  in  it.  This  lad  in 
short  trousers,  torn  shirt,  and  a  frayed  straw  hat 
above  his  mobile  and  cheerful  face,  might  be 
only  another  sort  of  animal,  a  lover  like  them 
selves  of  the  beech-nut  and  the  hickory-nut. 

It  was  a  gay  world  up  here  among  the  tossing 
branches.  Across  the  river,  on  the  first  terrace 
of  the  hill,  were  weather  -  beaten  farm  -  houses, 
amid  apple  orchards  and  cornfields.  Above 
these  rose  the  wooded  dome  of  Mount  Peak,  a 
thousand  feet  above  the  river,  and  beyond  that 
to  the  left  the  road  wound  up,  through  the  script 
ural  land  of  Bozrah,  to  high  and  lonesome  towns 
on  a  plateau  stretching  to  unknown  regions  in 
the  south.  There  was  no  bar  to  the  imagination 
in  that  direction.  What  a  gracious  valley,  what 
graceful  slopes,  what  a  mass  of  color  bathing 
this  lovely  summer  landscape  !  Down  from  the 
west,  through  hills  tkat  crowded  on  either  side 
to  divert  it  from  its  course,  ran  the  sparkling 
Deerfield,  from  among  the  springs  and  trout 
streams  of  the  Hoosac,  merrily  going  on  to  the 
great  Connecticut.  Along  the  stream  was  the 
ancient  highway,  or  low-way,  where  in  days  be 
fore  the  railway  came  the  stage-coach  and  the 
big  transport  -wagons  used  to  sway  and  rattle 

3 


THAT    FORTUNE 

along  on  their  adventurous  voyage  from  the  gate 
of  the  Sea  at  Boston  to  the  gate  of  the  "West  at 
Albany. 

Below,  where  the  river  spread  wide  among  the 
rocks  in  shallows,  or  eddies  in  deep,  dark  pools, 
was  the  ancient,  long,  covered,  wooden  bridge, 
striding  diagonally  from  rock  to  rock  on  stone 
columns,  a  dusky  tunnel  through  the  air,  a  pas 
sage  of  gloom  flecked  with  glints  of  sunlight, 
that  struggled  in  cross-currents  through  the  in 
terstices  of  the  boards,  and  set  dancing  the  motes 
and  the  dust  in  a  golden  haze,  a  stuffy  passage 
with  odors  a  century  old — who  does  not  know 
the  pungent  smell  of  an  old  bridge  ? — a  structure 
that  groaned  in  all  its  big  timbers  when  a  wagon 
invaded  it.  And  then  below  the  bridge  the  lad 
could  see  the  historic  meadow,  which  was  a  corn 
field  in  the  eighteenth  century,  where  Captain 
Moses  Rice  and  Phineas  Arms  came  suddenly 
one  summer  day  to  the  end  of  their  planting  and 
hoeing.  The  house  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  where 
the  boy  was  cultivating  his  imagination,  had 
been  built  by  Captain  Rice,  and  in  the  family 
burying-ground  in  the  orchard  above  it  lay  the 
body  of  this  mighty  militia-man,  and  beside  him 
that  of  Phineas  Arms,  and  on  the  head-stone  of 
each  the  legend  familiar  at  that  period  of  our 
national  life,  "  Killed  by  the  Indians."  Happy 
Phineas  Arms,  at  the  age  of  seventeen  to  ex- 

4 


THAT    FORTUNE 

change  in  a  moment  the  tedium  of  the  cornfield 
for  immortality. 

There  was  a  tradition  that  years  after,  when 
the  Indians  had  disappeared  through  a  gradual 
process  of  intoxication  and  pauperism,  a  red 
man  had  been  seen  skulking  along  the  brow  of 
this  very  hill  and  peering  down  through  the 
bushes  where  the  boy  was  now  perched  on  a 
tree,  shaking  his  fist  at  the  hated  civilization, 
and  vengefully,  some  said  pathetically,  looking 
down  into  this  valley  where  his  race  had  been 
so  happy  in  the  natural  pursuits  of  fishing,  hunt 
ing,  and  war.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  river 
was  still  to  be  traced  an  Indian  trail,  running  to 
the  western  mountains,  which  the  boy  intended 
some  time  to  follow,  for  this  highway  of  war 
like  forays,  of  messengers  of  defiance,  along 
which  white  maidens  had  been  led  captive  to 
Canada,  appealed  greatly  to  his  imagination. 

The  boy  lived  in  these  traditions  quite  as  much 
as  in  those  of  the  Ke volution ary  War  into  which 
they  invariably  glided  in  his  perspective  of  his 
tory,  the  redskins  and  the  redcoats  being 
both  enemies  of  his  ancestors.  There  was  the 
grave  of  the  envied  Phineas  Arms — that  ancient 
boy  not  much  older  than  he — and  there  were 
hanging  in  the  kitchen  the  musket  and  powder- 
horn  that  his  great-grandfather  had  carried  at 
Bunker  Hill,  and  did  he  not  know  by  heart  the 

5 


THAT    FORTUNE 

story  of  his  great-grandmother,  who  used  to  tell 
his  father  that  she  heard  when  she  was  a  slip  of 
a  girl  in  Plymouth  the  cannonading  on  that  awful 
day  when  Gage  met  his  victorious  defeat? 

In  fact,  according  to  his  history-book  there 
had  been  little  but  wars  in  this  peaceful  nation : 
the  War  of  1812,  the  Mexican  War,  the  inces 
sant  frontier  wars  with  the  Indians,  the  Kan 
sas  War,  the  Mormon  War,  the  War  for  the 
Union.  The  echoes  of  the  latter  had  not  yet 
died  away.  What  a  career  he  might  have  had 
if  he  had  not  been  born  so  late  in  the  world! 
Swinging  in  this  tree-top,  with  a  vivid  conscious 
ness  of  life,  of  his  own  capacity  for  action,  it 
seemed  a  pity  that  he  could  not  follow  the  drum 
and  the  flag  into  such  contests  as  he  read  about 
so  eagerly. 

And  yet  this  was  only  a  corner  of  the  boy's 
imagination.  He  had  many  worlds  and  he  lived 
in  each  by  turn.  There  was  the  world  of  the 
Old  Testament,  of  David  and  Samson,  and  of 
those  dim  figures  in  the  dawn  of  history,  called 
the  Patriarchs.  There  was  the  world  of  Julius 
Ca3sar  and  the  Latin  grammar,  though  this  was 
scarcely  as  real  to  him  as  the  Old  Testament, 
which  was  brought  to  his  notice  every  Sunday 
as  a  necessity  of  his  life,  while  Caesar  and  ^Eneas 
and  the  fourth  declension  wTere  made  to  be  a  task, 
for  some  mysterious  reason,"  a  part  of  his  educa- 

6 


THAT    FORTUNE 

tion.  He  had  not  been  told  that  they  were 
really  a  part  of  the  other  world  which  occupied 
his  mind  so  much  of  the  time,  the  world  of  the 
Arabian  Nights  and  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  Cole 
ridge  and  Shelley  and  Longfellow,  and  Wash 
ington  Irving  and  Scott  and  Thackeray,  and 
Pope's  Iliad  and  Plutarch's  Lives.  That  this 
was  a  living  world  to  the  boy  was  scarcely  his 
fault,  for  it  must  be  confessed  that  those  were 
very  antiquated  book-shelves  in  the  old  farm 
house  to  which  he  had  access,  and  the  news 
had  not  been  apprehended  in  this  remote  val 
ley  that  the  classics  of  literature  were  all  as 
good  as  dead  and  buried,  and  that  the  human 
mind  had  not  really  created  anything  worth 
modern  notice  before  about  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  It  was  not  exactly  an  ig 
norant  valley,  for  the  daily  newspapers  were 
there,  and  the  monthly  magazine,  and  the  fash 
ion-plate  of  Paris,  and  the  illuminating  sunshine 
of  new  science,  and  enough  of  the  uneasy  throb 
of  modern  life.  Yet  somehow  the  books  that 
were  still  books  had  not  been  sent  to  the  garret, 
to  make  room  for  the  illustrated  papers  and  the 
profound  physiological  studies  of  sin  and  suffer 
ing  that  were  produced  by  touching  a  scientific 
button.  No,  the  boy  was  conscious  in  a  way  of 
the  mighty  pulsation  of  American  life,  and  he 
had  also  a  dim  notion  that  his  dreams  in  his 

7 


THAT    FORTUNE 

various  worlds  would  come  to  a  brilliant  fulfil 
ment  when  he  was  big  enough  to  go  out  and 
win  a  name  and  fame.  But  somehow  the  old 
books,  and  the  family  life,  and  the  sedate  ways 
of  the  community  he  knew,  had  given  him  a 
fundamental  and  not  unarmed  faith  in  the  things 
that  were  and  had  been. 

Every  Sunday  the  preacher  denounced  the 
glitter  and  frivolity  and  corruption  of  what  he 
called  Society,  until  the  boy  longed  to  see  this 
splendid  panorama  of  cities  and  hasting  popula 
tions,  the  seekers  of  pleasure  and  money  and 
fame,  this  gay  world  which  was  as  fascinating 
as  it  was  wicked.  The  preacher  said  the  world 
was  wicked  and  vain.  It  did  not  seem  so  to  the 
boy  this  summer  day,  not  at  least  the  world  he 
knew.  Of  course  the  boy  had  no  experience. 
He  had  never  heard  of  Juvenal  nor  of  Max  JSTor- 
dau.  He  had  no  philosophy  of  life.  He  did  not 
even  know  that  when  he  became  very  old  the 
world  would  seem  to  him  good  or  bad  according 
to  the  degree  in  which  he  had  become  a  good  or 
a  bad  man. 

In  fact,  he  was  not  thinking  much  about  being 
good  or  being  bad,  but  of  trying  his  powers  in  a 
world  which  seemed  to  offer  to  him  infinite  op 
portunities.  His  name — Philip  Burnett — with 
which  the  world,  at  least  the  American  world,  is 
now  tolerably  familiar,  and  which  he  liked  to 

8 


THAT    FORTUNE 

write  with  ornamental  flourishes  on  the  fly 
leaves  of  his  school-books,  did  not  mean  much  to 
him,  for  he  had  never  seen  it  in  print,  nor  been 
confronted  with  it  as  something  apart  from  him 
self.  But  the  Philip  that  he  was  he  felt  sure 
would  do  something  in  the  world.  What  that 
something  should  be  varied  from  day  to  day  ac 
cording  to  the  book,  the  poem,  the  history  or  bi 
ography  that  he  was  last  reading.  It  would  not 
be  difficult  to  write  a  poem  like  "  Thanatopsis  " 
if  he  took  time  enough,  building  up  a  line  a  day. 
And  yet  it  would  be  better  to  be  a  soldier,  a 
man  who  could  use  the  sword  as  well  as  the  pen, 
a  poet  in  uniform.  This  was  a  pleasing  imagi 
nation.  Surely  his  aunt  and  his  cousins  in  the 
farm-house  would  have  more  respect  for  him  if 
he  wore  a  uniform,  and  treat  him  with  more 
consideration,  and  perhaps  they  would  be  very 
anxious  about  him  when  he  was  away  in  battles, 
and  very  proud  of  him  when  he  came  home  be 
tween  battles,  and  went  quite  modestly  with  the 
family  into  the  village  church,  and  felt  rather 
than  saw  the  slight  flutter  in  the  pews  as  he 
walked  down  the  aisle,  and  knew  that  the  young 
ladies,  the  girl  comrades  of  the  district  school, 
were  watching  him  from  the  organ  gallery,  curi 
ous  to  see  Phil  who  had  gone  into  the  army. 
Perhaps  the  preacher  would  have  a  sermon 
against  war,  and  the  preacher  should  see  how 


THAT    FORTUNE 

soldier-like  he  would  take  this  attack  on  him. 
Alas !  is  such  vanity  at  the  bottom  of  even  a  rea 
sonable  ambition  ?  Perhaps  his  town  would 
be  proud  of  him  if  he  were  a  lawyer,  a  Repre 
sentative  in  Congress,  come  back  to  deliver  the 
annual  oration  at  the  Agricultural  Fair.  He 
could  see  the  audience  of  familiar  faces,  and  hear 
the  applause  at  his  witty  satires  and  his  praise  of 
the  nobility  of  the  farmer's  life,  and  it  would  be 
sweet  indeed  to  have  the  country  people  grasp 
him  by  the  hand  and  call  him  Phil,  just  as  they 
used  to  before  he  was  famous.  What  he  would 
say,  he  was  not  thinking  of,  but  the  position  he 
would  occupy  before  the  audience.  There  were 
no  misgivings  in  any  of  these  dreams  of  youth. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  musings  of  this  dreamer  in  a  tree-top  were 
interrupted  by  the  peremptory  notes  of  a  tin 
horn  from  the  farm-house  below.  The  boy  rec 
ognized  this  not  only  as  a  signal  of  declining  day 
and  the  withdrawal  of  the  sun  behind  the  moun 
tains,  but  as  a  personal  and  urgent  notification 
to  him  that  a  certain  amount  of  disenchanting 
drudgery  called  chores  lay  between  him  and 
supper  and  the  lamp-illumined  pages  of  The  Last 
of  the  Mohicans.  It  was  difficult,  even  in  his 
own  estimation,  to  continue  to  be  a  hero  at  the 
summons  of  a  tin  horn  —  a  silver  clarion  and 
castle  walls  would  have  been  so  different  —  and 
Phil  slid  swiftly  down  from  his  perch,  envying 
the  squirrels  who  were  under  no  such  bondage  of 
duty. 

Kecalled  to  the  world  that  now  is,  the  lad 
hastily  gathered  a  bouquet  of  columbine  and  a 
bunch  of  the  tender  leaves  and  the  red  berries  of 
the  winter-green,  called  to  "  Turk,"  who  had  been 
all  these  hours  watching  a  woodchuck  hole,  and 
ran  down  the  hill  by  leaps  and  circuits  as  fast  as 

11 


THAT    FORTUNE 

his  little  legs  could  carry  him,  and,  with  every  ap 
pearance  of  a  lad  who  puts  duty  before  pleasure, 
arrived  breathless  at  the  kitchen  door,  where 
Alice  stood  waiting  for  him.  Alice,  the  some 
what  feeble  performer  on  the  horn,  who  had 
been  watching  for  the  boy  with  her  hand  shad 
ing  her  eyes,  called  out  upon  his  approach : 

"  Why,  Phil,  what  in  the  world—" 

"  Oh,  Alice !"  cried  the  boy,  eagerly,  having  in 
a  moment  changed  in  his  mind  the  destination 
of  the  flowers ;  "  I've  found  a  place  where  the 
checker-berries  are  thick  as  spatter."  And  Phil 
put  the  flowers  and  the  berries  in  his  cousin's 
hand.  Alice  looked  very  much  pleased  with  this 
simple  tribute,  but,  as  she  admired  it, unfortunate 
ly  asked — women  always  ask  such  questions — 

"  And  you  picked  them  for  me?" 

This  was  a  cruel  dilemma.  Phil  was  more  de 
voted  to  his  sweet  cousin  than  to  any  one  else 
in  the  world,  and  he  didn't  want  to  hurt  her 
feelings,  and  he  hated  to  tell  a  lie.  So  he  only 
looked  a  lie,  out  of  his  affectionate,  truthful  eyes, 
and  said : 

"  I  love  to  bring  you  flowers.  Has  uncle  come 
home  yet  ?" 

"  Yes,  long  ago.  He  called  and  looked  all 
around  for  you  to  unharness  the  horse,  and  he 
wanted  you  to  go  an  errand  over  the  river  to 
Gibson's.  I  guess  he  was  put  out." 

13 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Did  he  say  anything  ?" 

"  He  asked  if  you  had  weeded  the  beets.  And 
he  said  that  you  were  the  master  boy  to  dream 
and  moon  around  he  ever  saw."  And  she  added, 
with  a  confidential  and  mischievous  smile :  "  I 
think  you'd  better  brought  a  switch  along;  it 
would  save  time." 

Phil  had  a  great  respect  for  his  uncle  Mait- 
land,  but  he  feared  him  almost  more  than  he 
feared  the  remote  God  of  Abraham  and  Isaac. 
Mr.  Maitland  was  not  only  the  most  prosperous 
man  in  all  that  region,  but  the  man  of  the  finest 
appearance,  and  a  bearing  that  was  equity  itself. 
He  was  the  first  select-man  of  the  town,  and  a 
deacon  in  the  church,  and  however  much  he 
prized  mercy  in  the  next  world  he  did  not  intend 
to  have  that  quality  interfere  with  justice  in  this 
world.  Phil  knew  indeed  that  he  was  a  man  of 
God,  that  fact  was  impressed  upon  him  at  least 
twice  a  day,  but  he  sometimes  used  to  think  it 
must  be  a  severe  God  to  have  that  sort  of  man. 
And  he  didn't  like  the  curt  way  he  pronounced 
the  holy  name — he  might  as  well  have  called 
Job  "  job." 

Alice  was  as  unlike  her  father,  except  in  cer 
tain  race  qualities  of  integrity  and  common-sense, 
as  if  she  were  of  different  blood.  She  was  the 
youngest  of  five  maiden  sisters,  and  had  arrived 
at  the  mature  age  of  eighteen.  Slender  in  figure, 

13 


THAT    FORTUNE 

with  a  grace  that  was  half  shyness,  soft  brown 
hair,  gray  eyes  that  changed  color  and  could  as 
easily  be  sad  as  merry,  a  face  marked  with  a 
moving  dimple  that  every  one  said  was  lovely, 
retiring  in  manner  and  yet  not  lacking  spirit 
nor  a  sly  wit  of  her  own.  Now  and  then,  yes, 
very  often,  out  of  some  paradise,  no  doubt,  strays 
into  New  England  conditions  of  reticence  and 
self-denial  such  a  sweet  spirit,  to  diffuse  a  breath 
of  heaven  in  its  atmosphere,  and  to  wither  like  a 
rose  ungathered.  These  are  the  New  England 
nuns,  not  taking  any  vows,  not  self-consciously 
virtuous,  apparently  untouched  lay  the  vanities 
of  the  world.  Marriage  ?  It  is  not  in  any  girl's 
nature  not  to  think  of  that,  not  to  be  in  a  flutter 
of  pleasure  or  apprehension  at  the  attentions  of 
the  other  sex.  Who  has  been  able  truly  to  read 
the  thoughts  of  a  shrinking  maiden  in  the  pass 
ing  days  of  her  youth  and  beauty  ?  In  this  har 
monious  and  unselfish  household,  each  with  de 
cided  individual  character,  no  one  ever  intruded 
upon  the  inner  life  of  the  other.  No  confidences 
were  given  in  the  deep  matters  of  the  heart,  no 
sign  except  a  blush  over  a  sly  allusion  to  some 
one  who  had  been  "  attentive."  If  you  had 
stolen  a  look  into  the  work-basket  or  the  secret 
bureau  -  drawer,  you  might  have  found  a  treas 
ured  note,  a  bit  of  ribbon,  a  rose-bud,  some  token 
of  tenderness  or  of  friendship  that  was  growing 
14 


THAT    FORTUNE 

old  with  the  priestess  who  cherished  it.  Did 
they  not  love  flowers,  and  pets,  and  had  they 
not  a  passion  for  children  ?  "Were  there  not 
moonlight  evenings  when  they  sat  silent  and 
musing  on  the  stone  steps,  watching  the  shadows 
and  the  dancing  gleams  on  the  swift  river,  when 
the  air  was  fragrant  with  the  pink  and  the  lilac  ? 
Not  melancholy  this,  nor  poignantly  sad,  but 
having  in  it  nevertheless  something  of  the  pathos 
of  life  unfulfilled.  And  was  there  not  some 
times,  not  yet  habitually,  coming  upon  these 
faces,  faces  plain  and  faces  attractive,  the  shade 
of  renunciation  ? 

Phil  loved  Alice  devotedly.  She  was  his  con 
fidante,  his  defender,  but  he  feared  more  the  dis 
approval  of  her  sweet  eyes  when  he  had  done 
wrong  than  the  threatened  punishment  of  his 
uncle. 

"  I  only  meant  to  be  gone  just  a  little  while," 
Phil  went  on  to  say. 

"  And  you  were  away  the  whole  afternoon. 
It  is  a  pity  the  days  are  so  short.  And  you 
don't  know  what  you  lost." 

"  No  great,  I  guess." 

"  Celia  and  her  mother  Avere  here.  They 
stayed  all  the  afternoon." 

"  Celia  Ho  ward?   Did  she  wonder  where  I  was?" 

"  I  don't  know.  She  didn't  say  anything 
about  it.  What  a  dear  little  thing  she  is  !" 

15 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  And  she  can  say  pretty  cutting  things." 

"  Oh,  can  she  ?  Perhaps  you'd  better  run  down 
to  the  village  before  dark  and  take  her  these 
flowers." 

"  I'm  not  going.  I'd  rather  you  should  have 
the  flowers."  And  Phil  spoke  the  truth  this 
time. 

Celia,  who  was  altogether  too  young  to  oc 
cupy  seriously  the  mind  of  a  lad  of  twelve,  had 
nevertheless  gained  an  ascendency  over  him  be 
cause  of  her  wilful,  perverse,  and  sometimes 
scornful  ways,  and  because  she  was  different 
from  the  other  girls  of  the  school.  She  had  read 
many  more  books  than  Phil,  for  she  had  access 
to  a  library,  and  she  could  tell  him  much  of  a 
world  that  he  only  heard  of  through  books  and 
newspapers,  which  latter  he  had  no  habit  of 
reading.  He  liked,  therefore,  to  be  with  Celia, 
notwithstanding  her  little  airs  of  superiority,  and 
if  she  patronized  him,  as  she  certainly  did,  prob 
ably  the  simple-minded  young  gentleman,  who 
was  unconsciously  bred  in  the  belief  that  he  and 
his  own  kin  had  no  superiors  anywhere,  never 
noticed  it.  To  be  sure  they  quarrelled  a  good 
deal,  but  truth  to  say  Phil  was  never  more  fas 
cinated  with  the  little  witch,  whom  he  felt  him 
self  strong  enough  to  protect,  than  when  she 
showed  a  pretty  temper.  He  rather  liked  to  be 
ordered  about  by  the  little  tyrant.  And  sonae- 
16 


THAT   FORTUNE 

times  he  wished  that  Murad  Ault,  the  big  boy  of 
the  school,  would  be  rude  to  the  small  damsel,  so 
that  he  could  show  her  how  a  knight  would  act 
under  such  circumstances.  Murad  Ault  stood  to 
Phil  for  the  satanic  element  in  his  peaceful  world. 
He  was  not  only  big  and  strong  of  limb  and 
broad  of  chest,  but  he  was  very  swarthy,  and 
had  closely  curled  black  hair.  He  feared  noth 
ing,  not  even  the  teacher,  and  was  always  doing 
some  dare-devil  thing  to  frighten  the  children. 
And  because  he  was  dark,  morose,  and  made  no 
friends,  and  wished  none,  but  went  solitary  his 
own  dark  way,  Phil  fancied  that  he  must  have 
Spanish  blood  in  his  veins,  and  would  no  doubt 
grow  up  to  be  a  pirate.  E~o  other  boy  in  the 
winter  could  skate  like  Murad  Ault,  with  such 
strength  and  grace  and  recklessness  —  thin  ice 
and  thick  ice  were  all  one  to  him,  but  he  skated 
along,  dashing  in  and  out,  and  sweeping  away 
up  and  down  the  river  in  a  whirl  of  vigor  and 
daring,  like  a  black  marauder.  Yet  he  was  best 
and  most  awesome  in  the  swimming  pond  in 
summer — though  it  was  believed  that  he  dared 
go  in  in  the  bitter  winter,  either  by  breaking  the 
ice  or  through  an  air-hole,  and  there  was  a  story 
that  he  had  ventured  under  the  ice  as  fearless  as 
a  cold  fish.  No  one  could  dive  from  such  a 
height  as  he,  or  stay  so  long  under  water;  he 
liked  to  stay  under  long  enough  to  scare  the 
B  17 


THAT    FORTUNE 

spectators,  and  then  appear  at  a  distance,  thrash 
ing  about  in  the  water  as  if  he  were  rescuing 
himself  from  drowning,  sputtering  out  at  the 
same  time  the  most  diabolical  noises — curses,  no 
doubt,  for  he  had  been  heard  to  swear.  But  as 
he  skated  alone  he  swam  alone,  appearing  and 
disappearing  at  the  swimming  -  place  silently, 
with  never  a  salutation  to  anyone.  And  he  was 
as  skilful  a  fisher  as  he  was  a  swimmer.  No  one 
knew  much  about  him.  He  lived  with  his  moth 
er  in  a  little  cabin  up  among  the  hills,  that  had 
about  it  scant  patches  of  potatoes  and  corn  and 
beans,  a  garden  fenced  in  by  stump-roots,  as  ill- 
cared  for  as  the  shanty.  Where  they  came  from 
no  one  knew.  How  they  lived  was  a  matter  of 
conjecture,  though  the  mother  gathered  herbs 
and  berries  and  bartered  them  at  the  village 
store,  and  Murad  occasionally  took  a  hand  in 
some  neighbor's  hay-field,  or  got  a  job  of  chop 
ping  wood  in  the  winter.  The  mother  was  old 
and  small  and  withered,  and  they  said  evil-eyed. 
Probably  she  was  no  more  evil-eyed  than  any  old 
woman  who  had  such  a  hard  struggle  for  exist 
ence  as  she  had.  An  old  widow  with  an  only 
son  who  looked  like  a  Spaniard  and  acted  like 
an  imp  !  Here  was  another  sort  of  exotic  in  the 
New  England  life. 

Celia  had  been  brought  to  Rivervale  by  her 
mother  about  a  year  before  this  time,  and  the 

18 


THAT    FORTUNE 

two  occupied  a  neat  little  cottage  in  the  village, 
distinguished  only  by  its  neatness  and  a  plot  of 
syringas,  and  pinks,  and  marigolds,  and  roses, 
and  bachelor's  -  buttons,  and  boxes  of  the  tough 
little  exotics,  called  "  hen-and-chickens,"  in  the 
door-yard,  and  a  vigorous  fragrant  honeysuckle 
over  the  front  porch.  She  only  dimly  remem 
bered  her  father,  who  had  been  a  merchant  in  a 
small  way  in  the  city,  and  dying  left  to  his  wid 
ow  and  only  child  a  very  moderate  fortune.  The 
girl  showed  early  an  active  and  ingenious  mind, 
and  an  equal  love  for  books  and  for  having  her 
own  way ;  but  she  was  delicate,  and  Mrs.  How 
ard  wisely  judged  that  a  few  years  in  a  country 
village  would  improve  her  health  and  broaden 
her  view  of  life  beyond  that  of  cockney  pro 
vincialism.  For,  though  Mrs.  Howard  had  more 
refinement  than  strength  of  mind,  and  passed 
generally  for  a  sweet  and  inoffensive  little  wom 
an,  she  did  not  lack  a  certain  true  perception  of 
values,  due  doubtless  to  the  fact  that  she  had 
been  a  New  England  girl,  and,  before  her  mar 
riage  and  emigration  to  the  great  city,  had  passed 
her  life  among  unexciting  realities,  and  among 
people  who  had  leisure  to  think  out  things  in  a 
slow  way.  But  the  girl's  energy  and  self-confi 
dence  had  no  doubt  been  acquired  from  her  fa 
ther,  who  was  cut  off  in  mid-career  of  his  strug 
gle  for  place  in  the  metropolis,  or  from  some 
19 


THAT    FORTUNE 

remote  ancestor.  Before  she  was  eleven  years 
old  her  mother  had  listened  with  some  wonder 
and  more  apprehension  to  the  eager  forecast  of 
what  this  child  intended  to  do  when  she  became 
a  woman,  and  already  shrank  from  a  vision  of 
Celia  on  a  public  platform,  or  the  leader  of  some 
metempsychosis  club.  Through  her  affections 
only  was  the  child  manageable,  but  in  opposition 
to  her  spirit  her  mother  was  practically  power 
less.  Indeed,  this  little  sprout  of  the  New  Age 
always  spoke  of  her  to  Philip  and  to  the  Mait- 
lands  as  "  little  mother." 

The  epithet  seemed  peculiarly  tender  to  Philip, 
who  had  lost  his  father  before  he  was  six  years 
old,  and  he  was  more  attracted  to  the  timid 
and  gentle  little  widow  than  to  his  equable  but 
more  robust  Aunt  Eusebia,  Mrs.  Maitland,  his 
father's  elder  sister,  whom  Philip  fancied  not  a 
bit  like  his  father  except  in  sincerity,  a  quality 
common  to  the  Maitlands  and  Burnetts.  Yet 
there  was  a  family  likeness  between  his  aunt 
and  a  portrait  of  his  father,  painted  by  a  Bos 
ton  artist  of  some  celebrity,  which  his  mother, 
who  survived  her  husband  only  three  years,  had 
saved  for  her  boy.  His  father  was  a  farmer, 
but  a  man  of  considerable  cultivation,  though 
not  college-bred — his  last  request  on  his  death 
bed  was  that  Phil  should  be  sent  to  college — a 
man  who  made  experiments  in  improving  agri- 

20 


THAT    FORTUNE 

culture  and  the  breed  of  cattle  and  horses,  read 
papers  now  and  then  on  topics  of  social  and 
political  reform,  and  was  the  only  farmer  in  all 
the  hill  towns  who  had  what  might  be  called  a 
library.  It  was  all  scattered  at  the  time  of  the 
winding  up  of  the  farm  estate,  and  the  only 
jetsam  that  Philip  inherited  out  of  it  was  an 
annotated  copy  of  Adam  Smith's  Wealth  of 
Nations,  Young's  Travels  in  France,  a  copy  of 
The  NewcomeS)  and  the  first  American  edition 
of  Childe  Harold.  Probably  these  odd  volumes 
had  not  been  considered  worth  any  considerable 
bid  at  the  auction.  From  his  mother,  who  was 
fond  of  books,  and  had  on  more  than  one  oc 
casion,  of  the  failure  of  teachers,  taught  in  the 
village  school  in  her  native  town  before  her 
marriage,  Philip  inherited  his  love  of  poetry, 
and  he  well  remembered  how  she  used  to  try 
to  inspire  him  with  patriotism  by  reading  the 
orations  of  Daniel  Webster  (she  was  very  fond  of 
orations),  and  telling  him  war  stories  about  Grant 
and  Sherman  and  Sheridan  and  Farragut  and 
Lincoln.  He  distinctly  remembered  also  stand 
ing  at  her  knees  and  trying,  at  intervals,  to  com 
mit  to  memory  the  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner. 
He  had  learned  it  all  since,  because  he  thought 
it  would  please  his  mother,  and  because  there 
was  something  in  it  that  appealed  to  his  coming 
sense  of  the  mystery  of  life.  When  he  repeated 

21 


THAT    FORTUNE 

it  to  Celia,  who  had  never  heard  of  it,  and  re 
marked  that  it  was  all  made  up,  and  that  she 
never  tried  to  learn  a  long  thing  like  that  that 
wasn't  so,  Philip  could  see  that  her  respect  for 
him  increased  a  little.  He  did  not  know  that 
the  child  got  it  out  of  the  library  the  next  day 
and  never  rested  till  she  knew  it  by  heart. 
Philip  could  repeat  also  the  books  of  the  Bible 
in  order,  just  as  glibly  as  the  multiplication- 
table,  and  the  little  minx,  who  could  not  brook 
that  a  country  boy  should  be  superior  to  her  in 
anything,  had  surprised  her  mother  by  rattling 
them  all  off  to  her  one  Sunday  evening,  just  as 
if  she  had  been  born  in  New  England  instead  of 
in  New  York.  As  to  the  other  fine  things  his 
mother  read  him,  out  of  Buskin  and  the  like, 
Philip  chiefly  remembered  what  a  pretty  glow 
there  was  in  his  mother's  face  when  she  read 
them,  and  that  recollection  was  a  valuable  part 
of  the  boy's  education. 

Another  valuable  part  of  his  education  was 
the  gracious  influence  in  his  aunt's  household, 
the  spirit  of  candor,  of  affection,  and  the  sane 
common -sense  with  which  life  was  regarded, 
the  simplicity  of  its  faith  and  the  patience  with 
which  trials  were  borne.  The  lessons  he  learned 
in  it  had  more  practical  influence  in  his  life  than 
all  the  books  he  read.  Nor  were  his  opportuni 
ties  for  the  study  of  character  so  meagre  as  the 
22 


THAT    FORTUNE 

limit  of  one  family  would  imply.  As  often 
happens  in  New  England  households,  individu 
alities  were  very  marked,  and  from  his  stern 
uncle  and  his  placid  aunt  down  to  the  sweet  and 
nimble -witted  Alice,  the  family  had  developed 
traits  and  even  eccentricities  enough  to  make  it 
a  sort  of  microcosm  of  life.  There  for  instance 
was  Patience,  the  maiden  aunt,  his  father's  sis 
ter,  the  news -monger  of  the  fireside,  whose 
powers  of  ratiocination  first  gave  Philip  the 
Greek  idea  and  method  of  reasoning  to  a  point 
and  arriving  at  truth  by  the  process  of  exclusion. 
It  did  not  excite  his  wonder  at  the  time,  but 
afterwards  it  appeared  to  him  as  one  of  the  New 
England  eccentricities  of  which  the  novelists 
make  so  much.  Patience  was  a  home-keeping 
body  and  rarely  left  the  premises  except  to  go 
to  church  on  Sunday,  although  her  cheerfulness 
and  social  helpfulness  were  tinged  by  nothing 
morbid.  The  story  was — Philip  learned  it  long 
afterwards — that  in  her  very  young  and  frisky 
days  Patience  had  one  evening  remained  out  at 
some  merry-making  very  late,  and  in  fact  had 
been  escorted  home  in  the  moonlight  by  a  young 
gentleman  when  the  tall,  awful -faced  clock, 
whose  face  her  mother  was  watching,  was  on 
the  dreadful  stroke  of  eleven.  For  this  delin 
quency  her  mother  had  reproved  her,  the  girl 
thought  unreasonably,  and  she  had  quickly  re- 
23 


THAT    FORTUNE 

plied,  "  Mother,  I  will  never  go  out  again."  And 
she  never  did.  It  was  in  fact  a  renunciation  of 
the  world,  made  apparently  without  rage,  and 
adhered  to  with  cheerful  obstinacy. 

But  although  for  many  years  Patience  rarely 
left  her  home,  until  the  habit  of  seclusion  had 
become  as  fixed  as  that  of  a  nun  who  had  taken 
the  vows,  no  one  knew  so  well  as  she  the  news 
and  gossip  of  the  neighborhood,  and  her  power 
of  learning  or  divining  it  seemed  to  increase  with 
her  years.  She  had  a  habit  of  sitting,  when  her 
household  duties  permitted,  at  a  front  window, 
which  commanded  a  long  view  of  the  river  road, 
and  gathering  the  news  by  a  process  peculiar  to 
herself.  From  this  peep-hole  she  studied  the 
character  and  destination  of  all  the  passers-by 
that  came  within  range  of  her  vision,  and  made 
her  comments  and  deductions,  partly  to  her 
self,  but  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  might  be 
listening. 

"  Why,  there  goes  Thomas  Henry,"  she  would 
say  (she  always  called  people  by  their  first  and 
middle  names).  "Now,  wherever  can  he  be 
going  this  morning  in  the  very  midst  of  getting 
in  his  hay?  He  can't  be  going  to  the  Browns' 
for  vegetables,  for  they  set  great  store  by  their 
own  raising  this  year ;  and  they  don't  get  their 
provisions  up  this  way  either,  because  Mary  El 
len  quarrelled  with  Simmons' s  people  last  year. 

24 


THAT    FORTUNE 

No !"  she  would  exclaim,  rising  to  a  climax  of 
certainty  on  this  point,  "  I'll  be  bound  he  is  not 
going  after  anything  in  the  eating  line !" 

Meantime  Thomas  Henry's  wagon  would  be 
disappearing  slowly  up  the  sandy  road,  giving 
Patience  a  chance  to  get  all  she  could  out  of  it, 
by  eliminating  all  the  errands  Thomas  Henry 
could  not  possibly  be  going  to  do  in  order  to 
arrive  at  the  one  he  must  certainly  be  bound  on. 

"  They  do  say  he's  courting  Eliza  Merritt,"  she 
continued,  "  but  Eliza  never  was  a  girl  to  make 
any  man  leave  his  haying.  No,  he's  never  going 
to  see  Eliza,  and  if  it  isn't  provisions  or  love  it's 
nothing  short  of  sickness.  Now,  whoever  is  sick 
down  there?  It  can't  be  Mary  Ellen,  because 
she  takes  after  her  father's  family  and  they  are 
all  hearty.  It  must  be  Mary  Ellen's  little  girls, 
and  the  measles  are  going  the  rounds.  It  must 
be  they've  all  got  the  measles." 

If  the  listeners  suggested  that  possibly  one  of 
the  little  girls  might  have  escaped,  the  suggest 
ion  was  decisively  put  aside. 

"No;  if  one  of  them  had  been  well,  Mary 
Ellen  would  have  sent  her  for  the  doctor." 

Presently  Thomas  Henry's  cart  was  heard 
rumbling  back,  and  sure  enough  he  was  return 
ing  with  the  doctor,  and  Patience  hailed  him 
from  the  gate  and  demanded  news  of  Mary 
Ellen. 

25 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Why,  all  her  little  girls  have  the  measles," 
replied  Thomas  Henry,  "  and  I  had  to  leave  my 
haying  to  fetch  the  doctor." 

"  I  want  to  know,"  said  Patience. 

Being  the  eldest  born,  Patience  had  appro 
priated  to  herself  two  rooms  in  the  rambling 
old  farm-house  before  her  brother's  marriage, 
from  which  later  comers  had  never  dislodged 
her,  and  with  that  innate  respect  for  the 
rights  and  peculiarities  of  others  which  was 
common  in  the  household,  she  was  left  to  ex 
press  her  secluded  life  in  her  own  way.  As 
the  habit  of  retirement  grew  upon  her  she 
created  a  world  of  her  own,  almost  as  curious 
and  more  individually  striking  than  the  museum 
of  Cluny.  There  was  not  a  square  foot  in  her 
tiny  apartment  that  did  not  exhibit  her  handi 
work.  She  was  very  fond  of  reading,  and  had 
a  passion  for  the  little  prints  and  engravings  of 
"  foreign  views,"  which  she  wove  into  her  realm 
of  natural  history.  There  was  no  flower  or  leaf 
or  fruit  that  she  had  seen  that  she  could  not 
imitate  exactly  in  wax  or  paper.  All  over  the 
walls  hung  the  little  prints  and  engravings, 
framed  in  wreaths  of  moss  and  artificial  flowers, 
or  in  elaborate  square  frames  made  of  paste 
board.  The  pasteboard  was  cut  out  to  fit  the 
picture,  and  the  margins,  daubed  with  paste, 
were  then  strewn  with  seeds  of  corn  and  acorns 

26 


THAT    FORTUNE 

and  hazel-nuts,  and  then  the  whole  was  gilded  so 
that  the  effect  was  almost  as  rich  as  it  was 
novel.  All  about  the  rooms,  in  nooks  and  on 
tables,  stood  baskets  and  dishes  of  fruit — apples 
and  plums  and  peaches  and  grapes  —  set  in 
proper  foliage  of  most  natural  appearance,  like 
enough  to  deceive  a  bird  or  the  Sunday-school 
scholars,  when  on  rare  occasions  they  were  ad 
mitted  into  this  holy  of  holies.  Out  of  boxes, 
apparently  filled  with  earth  in  the  corners  of  the 
rooms,  grew  what  seemed  to  be  vines  trained  to 
run  all  about  the  cornices  and  to  festoon  the 
pictures,  but  which  were  really  strings,  colored 
in  imitation  of  the  real  vine,  and  spreading  out 
into  paper  foliage.  To  complete  the  naturalistic 
character  of  these  everlasting  vines,  which  no 
scale -bugs  could  assail,  there  were  bunches  of 
wonderful  grapes  depending  here  and  there  to 
excite  the  cupidity  of  both  bird  and  child.  There 
was  no  cruelty  in  the  nature  of  Patience,  and  she 
made  prisoners  of  neither  birds  nor  squirrels,  but 
cunning  cages  here  and  there  held  most  life-like 
counterfeits  of  their  willing  captives.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  room  that  was  alive,  except  the 
dainty  owner,  but  it  seemed  to  be  a  museum  of 
natural  history.  The  rugs  on  the  floor  were  of 
her  own  devising  and  sewing  together,  and  rival 
led  in  color  and  ingenuity  those  of  Bokhara.  But 
Patience  was  a  student  of  the  heavens  as  well  as 

27 


THAT    FORTUNE 

of  the  earth,  and  it  was  upon  the  ceiling  that  her 
imagination  expanded.  There  one  could  see  in 
their  order  the  constellations  of  the  heavens, 
represented  by  paper-gilt  stars,  of  all  magnitudes, 
most  wonderful  to  behold.  This  part  of  her 
decorations  was  the  most  difficult  of  all.  The 
constellations  were  not  made  from  any  geography 
of  the  heavens,  but  from  actual  nightly  observa 
tion  of  the  positions  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  Pa 
tience  confessed  that  the  getting  exactly  right  of 
the  Great  Dipper  had  caused  her  most  trouble. 
On  the  night  that  was  constructed  she  sat  up  till 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  going  out  and  study 
ing  it  and  coming  in  and  putting  up  one  star  at  a 
time.  How  could  she  reach  the  high  ceiling? 
Oh,  she  took  a  bean-pole,  stuck  the  gilt  star  on 
the  end  of  it,  having  paste  on  the  reverse  side, 
and  fixed  it  in  its  place.  That  was  easy,  only  it 
was  difficult  to  remember  when  she  came  in  to 
the  house  the  correct  positions  of  the  stars  in  the 
heavens.  "What  the  astronomer  and  the  botanist 
and  the  naturalist  would  have  said  of  this  little 
kingdom  is  unknown,  but  Patience  herself  lived 
among  the  glories  of  the  heavens  and  the  beauties 
of  the  earth  which  she  had  created.  Probably 
she  may  have  had  a  humorous  conception  of  this, 
for  she  was  not  lacking  in  a  sense  of  humor. 
The  stone  step  that  led  to  her  private  door  she 
had  skilfully  painted  with  faint  brown  spots,  so 

28 


THAT    FORTUNE 

that  when  visitors  made  their  exit  from  this  part 
of  the  house  they  would  say,  "  Why,  it  rains !" 
but  Patience  would  laugh  and  say,  "  I  guess  it  is 
over  by  now." 


CHAPTER  III 

"  I'M  not  going  to  follow  you  about  any  more 
through  the  brush  and  brambles,  Phil  Burnett," 
and  Celia,  emerging  from  the  thicket  into  a 
clearing,  flung  herself  down  on  a  knoll  under  a 
beech-tree. 

Celia  was  cross.  They  were  out  for  a  Saturday 
holiday  on  the  hill-side,  where  Phil  said  there  were 
oceans  of  raspberries  and  blueberries  beginning  to 
get  ripe,  and  where  you  could  hear  the  partridges 
drumming  in  the  woods,  and  see  the  squirrels. 

"  Why,  I'm  not  a  bit  tired,"  said  Phil ;  "a  boy 
wouldn't  be."  And  he  threw  himself  down  on 
the  green  moss,  with  his  heels  in  the  air,  much 
more  intent  on  the  chatter  of  a  gray  squirrel  in 
the  tree  above  him  than  on  the  complaints  of  his 
comrade. 

"  "Why  don't  you  go  with  a  boy,  then  ?"  asked 
Celia,  in  a  tone  intended  to  be  severe  and  digni 
fied. 

"  A  boy  isn't  so  nice,"  said  Philip,  with  the  air 
of  stating  a  general  proposition,  but  not  looking 
at  her. 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Oh,"  said  Celia,  only  half  appeased,  "  I  quite 
agree  with  you."  And  she  pulled  down  some 
beech  leaves  from  a  low,  hanging  limb  and  began 
to  plait  a  wreath. 

"  Who  are  }rou  making  that  for?"  asked  Philip, 
who  began  to  be  aware  that  a  cloud  had  come 
over  his  holiday  sky. 

"Nobody  in  particular;  it's  just  a  wreath." 
And  then  there  was  silence,  till  Philip  made 
another  attempt. 

"  Celia,  I  don't  mind  staying  here  if  you  are 
tired.  Tell  me  something  about  New  York  City. 
I  wish  we  were  there." 

"Much  you  know  about  it,"  said  Celia,  but 
with  some  relaxation  of  her  severity,  for  as  she 
looked  at  the  boy  in  his  country  clothes  and 
glanced  at  her  own  soiled  frock  and  abraded 
shoes,  she  thought  what  a  funny  appearance  the 
pair  would  make  on  a  fashionable  city  street. 

"  Would  you  rather  be  there  ?"  asked  Philip. 
"  I  thought  you  liked  living  here." 

"  Would  I  rather  ?  What  a  question  !  Every 
body  would.  The  country  is  a  good  place  to  go 
to  when  you  are  tired,  as  mamma  is.  But  the 
city !  The  big  fine  houses,  and  the  people  all 
going  about  in  a  hurry  ;  the  streets  all  lighted 
up  at  night,  so  that  you  can  see  miles  and  miles 
of  lights ;  and  the  horses  and  carriages,  and  the 
lovely  dresses,  and  the  churches  full  of  nice 

31 


THAT    FORTUNE 

people,  and  such  beautiful  music !  And  once 
mamma  took  me  to  the  theatre.  Oh,  Phil,  you 
ought  to  see  a  play,  and  the  actors,  all  be-a-u-ti- 
fully  dressed,  and  talking  just  like  a  party  in  a 
house,  and  dancing,  and  being  funny,  and  some 
of  it  so  sad  as  to  make  you  cry,  and  some  of  it  so 
droll  that  you  had  to  laugh — just  such  a  world  as 
you  read  of  in  books  and  in  poetry.  I  was  so 
excited  that  I  saw  the  stage  all  night  and  could 
hardly  sleep."  The  girl  paused  and  looked  away 
to  the  river  as  if  she  saw  it  all  again,  and  then 
added  in  a  burst  of  confidence  :  "  Do  you  know, 
I  mean  to  be  an  actress  some  day,  when  mamma 
will  let  me." 

"Play-actors  are  wicked,"  said  Phil,  in  a 
tone  of  decision  ;  "  our  minister  says  so,  and  my 
uncle  says  so." 

"  Fudge  !"  returned  Celia.  "  Much  they  know 
about  it.  Did  Alice  say  so  ?" 

"  I  never  asked  her,  but  she  said  once  that  she 
supposed  it  was  wrong,  but  she  would  like  to  see 
a  play." 

"  There,  everybody  would.  Mamma  says  the 
people  from  the  country  go  to  the  theatre  al 
ways,  a  good  deal  more  than  the  people  in  the 
city  go.  I  should  like  to  see  your  aunt  Patience 
in  a  theatre  and  hear  what  she  said  about  it. 
She's  an  actress  if  ever  there  was  one." 

Philip  opened  his  eyes  in  protest. 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Mamma  says  it  is  as  good  as  a  play  to  hear 
her  go  on  about  people,  and  what  they  are  like, 
and  what  they  are  going  to  do,  and  then  her  lit 
tle  rooms  are  just  like  a  scene  on  a  stage.  If 
they  were  in  New  York  everybody  would  go  to 
see  them  and  to  hear  her  talk." 

This  was  such  a  new  view  of  his  home  life  to 
Philip  that  he  could  neither  combat  it  nor  assent 
to  it,  further  than  to  say  that  his  aunt  was  just 
like  everybody  else,  though  she  did  have  some 
peculiar  ways. 

"  Well,  she  acts,"  Celia  insisted,  "  and  most 
people  act.  Our  minister  acts  all  the  time,  mam 
ma  says."  Celia  had  plenty  of  opinions  of  her 
own,  but  when  she  ventured  a  startling  state 
ment  she  had  the  habit  of  going  under  the  shel 
ter  of  "  little  mother,"  whose  casual  and  uncon- 
sidered  remarks  the  girl  turned  to  her  own  uses. 
Perhaps  she  would  not  have  understood  that  her 
mother  merely  meant  that  the  minister's  sacer 
dotal  character  was  not  exactly  his  own  char 
acter.  Just  as  Philip  noticed  without  being  able 
to  explain  it  that  his  uncle  was  one  sort  of  a  man 
in  his  religious  exercises  and  observances  and 
another  sort  of  man  in  his  dealings  with  him. 
Children  often  have  recondite  thoughts  that  do 
not  get  expression  until  their  minds  are  more 
mature  ;  they  even  accept  contradictory  facts  in 
their  experience.  There  was  one  of  the  deacons 


THAT    FORTUNE 

who  was  as  kind  as  possible,  and  Philip  believed 
was  a  good  and  pious  man,  who  had  the  reputa 
tion  of  being  sharp  and  even  tricky  in  a  horse- 
trade.  And  Philip  used  to  think  how  lucky  it 
was  for  him  that  he  had  been  converted  and  was 
saved ! 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  here  always  ?"  asked 
Philip,  pursuing  his  own  train  of  thought  about 
the  city. 

"  Here  ?  I  should  think  not.  If  I  were  a  boy 
I  wouldn't  stay  here,  I  can  tell  you.  What  are 
you  going  to  do,  Phil,  what  are  you  going  to 
be?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Philip,  turning  over 
on  his  back  and  looking  up  into  the  blue  world 
through  the  leaves ;  "  go  to  college,  I  suppose." 
Children  are  even  more  reticent  than  adults 
about  revealing  their  inner  lives,  and  Philip 
would  not,  even  to  Celia,  have  confessed  the 
splendid  dreams  about  his  career  that  came  to 
him  that  day  in  the  hickory-tree,  and  that  oc 
cupied  him  a  great  deal. 

"  Of  course,"  said  this  wise  child,  "  but  that's 
nothing.  I  mean,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ? 
My  cousin  Jim  has  been  all  through  college,  and 
he  doesn't  do  a  thing  except  wear  nice  clothes 
and  hang  around  and  talk.  He  says  I'm  a  little 
chatter-box.  I  hate  the  sight  of  him." 

"  If  he  doesn't  like  you  then  I  don't  like  him," 
34 


THAT    FORTUNE 

said  Philip,  as  if  he  were  making  a  general  and 
not  a  personal  assertion.  "  Oh,  I  should  like  to 
travel." 

"  So  should  I,  and  see  things  and  find  things. 
Jim  says  he's  going  to  be  an  explorer.  He  never 
will.  He  wouldn't  find  anything.  He  twits  me, 
and  wants  to  know  what  is  the  good  of  my  read 
ing  about  Africa  and  such  things.  Phil,  don't 
you  love  to  read  about  Africa,  and  the  desert, 
and  the  lions  and  the  snakes,  and  bananas  grow 
ing,  and  palm-trees,  and  the  queerest  black  men 
and  women,  real  dwarfs  some  of  them  ?  I  just 
love  it." 

" So  do  I,"  said  Philip,  "as  far  as  I  have  read. 
Alice  says  it's  awful  dangerous — fevers  and  wild 
beasts  and  savages  and  all  that.  But  I  shouldn't 
mind." 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't.  But  it  costs  like 
everything  to  go  to  Africa,  or  anywhere." 

"  I'd  make  a  book  about  it,  and  give  lectures, 
and  make  lots  of  money." 

"  I  guess,"  said  Celia,  reflecting  upon  this  propo 
sition,  "  I'd  be  an  engineer  or  a  railroad  man,  or 
something  like  that,  and  make  a  heap  of  money, 
and  then  I  could  go  anywhere  I  liked.  I  just 
hate  to  be  poor.  There !" 

"  Is  Jim  poor  ?" 

"No;  he  can  do  what  he  pleases.  I  asked 
him,  then,  why  he  didn't  go  to  Africa,  and  he 

35 


THAT    FORTUNE 

wanted  to  know  what  was  the  good  of  finding 
Livingstone,  anyway.  I'll  bet  Murad  Ault  would 
go  to  Africa." 

"I  wish  he  would,"  said  Philip;  and  then, 
having  moved  so  that  he  could  see  Celia's  face, 
"  Do  you  like  Murad  Ault  ?" 

"No,"  replied  Celia,  promptly;  "he's  horrid, 
but  he  isn't  afraid  of  anything." 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  said  Philip,  who  was 
nettled  by  this  implication.  And  Celia,  who 
had  shown  her  power  of  irritating,  took  anoth 
er  tack. 

"You  don't  think  I'd  be  seen  going  around 
with  him?  Aren't  we  having  a  good  time  up 
here  ?" 

"  Bully !"  replied  Philip.  And  not  seeing  the 
way  to  expand  this  topic  any  further,  he  sud 
denly  said :  "  Celia,  the  next  time  I  go  on  our 
hill  I'll  get  you  lots  of  sassafras." 

"  Oh,  I  love  sassafras,  and  sweet-flag !" 

"  We  can  get  that  on  the  way  home.  I  know 
a  place."  And  then  there  was  a  pause.  "  Celia, 
you  didn't  tell  me  what  you  are  going  to  do  when 
you  grow  up." 

"  Go  to  college." 

"  You  ?  Why,  girls  do,  don't  they  ?  I  never 
thought  of  that." 

"  Of  course  they  do.  I  don't  know  whether 
I'll  write  or  be  a  doctor.  I  know  one  thing — I 
36 


THAT    FORTUNE 

won't  teach  school.  It's  the  hatefulest  thing 
there  is !  It's  nice  to  be  a  doctor  and  have  your 
own  horse,  and  go  round  like  a  man.  If  it 
wasn't  for  seeing  so  many  sick  people !  I  guess 
I'll  write  stories  and  things." 

"So  would  I,"  Philip  confessed,  "if  I  knew 
any." 

"  Why,  you  make  'em  up.  Mamma  says  they 
are  all  made  up.  I  can  make  'em  in  my  head  any 
time  when  I'm  alone." 

"  I  don't  know,"  Philip  said,  reflectively,  "  but 
I  could  make  up  a  story  about  Muracl  Ault,  and 
how  he  got  to  be  a  pirate  and  got  in  jail  and  was 
hanged." 

"  Oh,  that  wouldn't  be  a  real  story.  You  have 
got  to  have  different  people  in  it,  and  have  'em 
talk,  just  as  they  do  in  books ;  and  somebody  is 
in  love  and  somebody  dies,  and  the  like  of  that." 

"Well,  there  are  such  stories  in  The  Pirates 
Own  Book,  and  it's  awful  interesting." 

"  I'd  be  ashamed,  Philip  Burnett,  to  read  such 
a  cruel  thing,  all  about  robbers  and  murders." 

"  I  didn't  read  it  through ;  Alice  said  she  was 
going  to  burn  it  up.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she 
did." 

"Boys  make  me  tired!"  exclaimed  this  little 
piece  of  presumption;  and  this  attitude  of  su 
periority  exasperated  Philip  more  than  anything 
else  his  mentor  had  said  or  done,  and  he  asserted 

37 


THAT    FORTUNE 

his  years  of  seniority  by  jumping  up  and  saying, 
decidedly,  "  It's  time  to  go  home.  Shall  I  carry 
your  wreath  ?" 

"  No,  I  thank  you !"  replied  Celia,  with  frigid 
politeness. 

"  Down  in  the  meadow,"  said  Philip,  making 
one  more  effort  at  conciliation,  "we  can  get 
some  tiger-lilies,  and  weave  them  in  and  make 
a  beautiful  wreath  for  your  mother." 

"She  doesn't  like  things  fussed  up,"  was  the 
gracious  reply.  And  then  the  children  trudged 
along  homeward,  each  with  a  distinct  sense  of 
injury. 


CHAPTER   IV 

TEAITS  that  make  a  child  disagreeable  are  apt 
to  be  perpetuated  in  the  adult.  The  bumptious, 
impudent,  selfish,  "hateful"  boy  may  become  a 
man  of  force,  of  learning,  of  decided  capacity, 
even  of  polish  and  good  manners,  and  score  suc 
cess,  so  that  those  who  know  him  say  how  re 
markable  it  is  that  such  a  "  knurly  "  lad  should 
have  turned  out  so  well.  But  some  exigency  in 
his  career,  it  may  be  extraordinary  prosperity  or 
bitter  defeat,  may  at  any  moment  reveal  the 
radical  traits  of  the  boy,  the  original  ignoble 
nature.  The  world  says  that  it  is  a  "throwing 
back";  it  is  probably  only  a  persistence  of  the 
original  meanness  under  all  the  overlaid  culti 
vation  and  restraint. 

Without  bothering  itself  about  the  recondite 
problems  of  heredity  or  the  influence  of  environ 
ment,  the  world  wisely  makes  great  account  of 
"  stock."  The  peasant  nature,  which  may  be  a 
very  different  thing  from  the  peasant  condition, 
persists,  and  shows  itself  in  business  affairs,  in 
literature,  even  in  the  artist.  ISTo  marriage  is 
39 


THAT    FORTUNE 

wisely  contracted  without  consideration  of 
"stock."  The  admirable  qualities  which  make 
a  union  one  of  mutual  respect  and  enduring 
affection — the  generosities,  the  magnanimities, 
the  courage  of  soul,  the  crystalline  truthfulness, 
the  endurance  of  ill  fortune  and  of  prosperity- 
are  commonly  the  persistence  of  the  character 
of  the  stock.  AVe  can  get  on  with  surface  weak 
nesses  and  eccentricities,  and  even  disagreeable 
peculiarities,  if  the  substratum  of  character  is 
sound.  There  is  no  woman  or  man  so  difficult 
to  get  on  with,  whatever  his  or  her  graces  or 
accomplishments,  as  the  one  "you  don't  know 
where  to  find,"  as  the  phrase  is.  Indeed,  it  has 
come  to  pass  that  the  highest  and  final  eulogy 
ever  given  to  a  man,  either  in  public  or  private 
life,  is  that  he  is  one  "  you  can  tie  to."  And 
•when  you  find  a  woman  of  that  sort  you  do  not 
need  to  explain  to  the  cynical  the  wisdom  of  the 
Creator  in  making  the  most  attractive  and  fas 
cinating  sex. 

The  traits,  good  and  bad,  persist ;  they  may 
be  veneered  or  restrained,  they  are  seldom  eradi 
cated.  All  the  traits  that  made  the  great  Na 
poleon  worshipped,  hated,  and  feared  existed  in 
the  little  Bonaparte,  as  perfectly  as  the  pea-pod 
in  the  flower.  The  whole  of  the  First  Empire 
was  smirched  with  Corsican  vulgarity.  The 
world  always  reckons  with  these  radical  influ- 

40 


THAT    FORTUNE 

ences  that  go  to  make  up  a  family.  One  of  the 
first  questions  asked  by  an  old  politician,  who 
knew  his  world  thoroughly,  about  any  man  be 
coming  prominent,  when  there  was  a  discussion 
of  his  probable  action,  was,  "Whom  did  he 
marry  ?" 

There  are  exceptions  to  this  general  rule,  and 
they  are  always  noticeable  when  they  occur — 
this  deviation  from  the  traits  of  the  earliest  years 
—  and  offer  material  for  some  of  the  subtlest 
and  most  interesting  studies  of  the  novelist. 

It  was  impossible  for  those  who  met  Philip 
Burnett  after  he  had  left  college,  and  taken  his 
degree  in  the  law-school,  and  spent  a  year,  more 
or  less  studiously,  in  Europe,  to  really  know 
him  if  they  had  not  known  the  dreaming  boy 
in  his  early  home,  with  all  the  limitations  as 
well  as  the  vitalizing  influences  of  his  start  in 
life.  And  on  the  contrary,  the  error  of  the 
neighbors  of  a  lad  in  forecasting  his  career  comes 
from  the  fact  that  they  do  not  know  him.  The 
verdict  about  Philip  would  probably  have  been 
that  he  was  a  very  nice  sort  of  a  boy,  but  that 
he  would  never  "  set  the  North  River  on  fire." 
There  was  a  headstrong,  selfish,  pushing  sort  of 
boy,  one  of  Philip's  older  school-mates,  who  had 
become  one  of  the  foremost  merchants  and 
operators  in  New  York,  and  was  already  talked 
of  for  mayor.  This  success  was  the  sort  that 
41 


THAT    FORTUNE 

fulfilled  the  rural  idea  of  getting  on  in  the  world, 
whereas  Philip's  accomplishments,  seen  through 
the  veneer  of  conceit  which  they  had  occasioned 
him  to  take  on,  did  not  commend  themselves  as 
anything  worth  while.  Accomplishments  rarely 
do  unless  they  are  translated  into  visible  posi 
tion  or  into  the  currency  of  the  realm.  How 
else  can  they  be  judged  ?  Does  not  the  great 
public  involuntarily  respect  the  author  rather 
for  the  sale  of  his  books  than  for  the  books 
themselves  ? 

The  period  of  Philip's  novitiate — those  most 
important  years  from  his  acquaintance  with 
Celia  Howard  to  the  attainment  of  his  profes 
sional  degree — was  most  interesting  to  him,  but 
the  story  of  it  would  not  detain  the  reader  of 
exciting  fiction.  He  had  elected  to  use  his  little 
patrimony  in  making  himself  instead  of  in  mak 
ing  money — if  merely  following  his  inclination 
could  be  called  an  election.  If  he  had  reasoned 
about  it  he  would  have  known  that  the  few 
thousands  of  dollars  left  to  him  from  his  father's 
estate,  if  judiciously  invested  in  business,  would 
have  grown  to  a  good  sum  when  he  came  of  age, 
and  he  would  by  that  time  have  come  into  busi 
ness  habits,  so  that  all  he  would  need  to  do  would 
be  to  go  on  and  make  more  money.  If  he  had 
reasoned  more  deeply  he  would  have  seen  that 
by  this  process  he  would  become  a  man  of  com- 

42 


THAT    FORTUNE 

paratively  few  resources  for  the  enjoyment  of 
life,  and  a  person  of  very  little  interest  to  him 
self  or  to  anybody  else.  So  perhaps  it  was  just 
as  well  that  he  followed  his  instincts  and  post 
poned  the  making  of  money  until  he  had  made 
himself,  though  he  was  to  have  a  good  many 
bitter  days  when  the  possession  of  money  seemed 
to  him  about  the  one  thing  desirable. 

It  was  Celia,  who  had  been  his  constant  coun 
sellor  and  tormentor,  about  the  time  when  she 
was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  shy  and  long-legged, 
in  her  short  skirts,  who  had,  in  a  romantic  sym 
pathy  with  his  tastes,  opposed  his  going  into  a 
"  store "  as  a  clerk,  which  seemed  to  the  boy  at 
one  time  an  ideal  situation  for  a  young  man. 

"A  store,  indeed!"  cried  the  young  lady; 
"  pomatum  on  your  hair,  and  a  grin  on  your 
face;  snip,  snip,  snip,  calico,  ribbons,  yard-stick; 
'  It's  very  becoming,  miss,  that  color ;  this  is  only 
a  sample,  only  a  remnant,  but  I  shall  have  a  new 
stock  in  by  Friday;  anything  else,  ma'am,  to 
day  V  Sho !  Philip,  for  a  man  !" 

Fortunately  for  Philip  there  lived  in  the  vil 
lage  an  old  waif,  a  scholarly  oddity,  uncommuni 
cative,  whose  coming  to  dwell  there  had  excited 
much  gossip  before  the  inhabitants  got  used  to 
his  odd  ways.  Usually  reticent  and  rough  of 
speech — the  children  thought  he  was  an  old  bear 
— he  was  nevertheless  discovered  to  be  kindly 


THAT    FORTUNE 

and  even  charitable  in  neighborhood  emergencies, 
and  the  minister  said  he  was  about  the  most 
learned  man  he  ever  knew.  His  history  does 
not  concern  us,  but  he  was  doubtless  one  of  the 
men  whose  talents  have  failed  to  connect  with 
success  in  anything,  who  had  had  his  bout  with 
the  world,  and  retired  into  peaceful  seclusion 
in  an  indulgence  of  a  mild  pessimism  about  the 
world  generally. 

He  lived  alone,  except  for  the  rather  neutral 
presence  of  Aunt  Hepsy,  who  had  formerly  been  a 
village  tailoress,  and  whose  cottage  he  had  bought 
with  the  proviso  that  the  old  woman  should  con 
tinue  in  it  as  "  help."  With  Aunt  Hepsy  he  was 
no  more  communicative  than  with  anybody  else. 
"  He  was  always  readin',  when  he  wasn't  goin' 
fishin'  or  off  in  the  woods  with  his  gun,  and 
never  made  no  trouble,  and  was  about  the  easiest 
man  to  get  along  with  she  ever  see.  You  mind 
your  business  and  he'll  mind  his'n."  That  was 
the  sum  of  Aunt  Hepsy's  delivery  about  the  re 
cluse,  though  no  doubt  her  old  age  was  enriched 
by  constant  "  study  "  over  his  probable  history 
and  character.  But  Aunt  Hepsy,  since  she  had 
given  up  tailoring,  was  something  of  a  recluse 
herself. 

The  house  was  full  of  books,  mostly  queer 
books,  "in  languages  nobody  knows  what,"  as 
Aunt  Hepsy  said,  which  made  Philip  open  his 
44 


THAT     FORTUNE 

eyes  when  he  went  there  one  day  to  take  to  the 
old  man  a  memorandum -book  which  he  had 
found  on  Mill  Brook.  The  recluse  took  a  fancy 
to  the  ingenuous  lad  when  he  saw  he  was  inter 
ested  i'n  books,  and  perhaps  had  a  mind  not  much 
more  practical  than  his  own ;  the  result  was  an 
acquaintance,  and  finally  an  intimacy — at  which 
the  village  wondered  until  it  transpired  that 
Philip  was  studying  with  the  old  fellow,  who 
was  no  doubt  a  poor  shack  of  a  school-teacher 
in  disguise. 

It  was  from  this  gruff  friend  that  Philip 
learned  Greek  and  Latin  enough  to  enable  him 
to  enter  college,  not  enough  drill  and  exact  train 
ing  in  either  to  give  him  a  high  stand,  but  an 
appreciation  of  the  literatures  about  which  the 
old  scholar  was  always  enthusiastic.  Philip  re 
gretted  all  his  life  that  he  had  not  been  severely 
drilled  in  the  classics  and  mathematics,  for  he 
never  could  become  a  specialist  in  anything. 
But  perhaps,  even  in  this,  fate  was  dealing  with 
him  according  to  his  capacities.  And,  indeed,  he 
had  a  greater  respect  for  the  scholarship  of  his 
wayside  tutor  than  for  the  pedantic  acquirements 
of  many  men  he  came  to  know  afterwards. 
It  was  from  him  that  Philip  learned  about 
books  and  how  to  look  for'  what  he  wanted  to 
know,  and  it  was  he  who  directed  Philip's  taste 
to  the  best.  When  he  went  off  to  college  the 

45 


THAT    FORTUNE 

lad  had  not  a  good  preparation,  but  he  knew  a 
great  deal  that  would  not  count  in  the  entrance 
examinations.  "  You  will  need  all  the  tools  you 
can  get  the  use  of,  my  boy,  in  the  struggle,"  was 
the  advice  of  his  mentor,  "  and  the  things  you 
will  need  most  may  be  those  you  have  thought 
least  of.  I  never  go  fishing  without  both  fly 
and  bait." 

Philip  was  always  grateful  that  before  he  en 
tered  college  he  had  a  fine  reading  knowledge  of 
French,  and  that  he  knew  enough  German  to 
read  and  enjoy  Heine's  poems  and  prose,  and 
that  he  had  read,  or  read  in,  pretty  much  all  the 
English  classics. 

He  used  to  recall  the  remark  of  a  lad  about 
his  own  age,  who  was  on  a  vacation  visit  to 
River  vale,  and  had  just  been  prepared  for  col 
lege  at  one  of  the  famous  schools.  The  boys 
liked  each  other  and  were  much  together  in  the 
summer,  and  talked  about  what  interested  them 
during  their  rambles,  carrying  the  rod  or  the 
fowling-piece.  Philip  naturally  had  most  to  SSLJ 
about  the  world  he  knew,  which  was  the  world 
of  books — that  is  to  say,  the  stored  information 
that  had  accumulated  in  the  world.  This  more 
and  more  impressed  the  trained  student,  who  one 
day  exclaimed : 

"  By  George !  I  might  have  known  something 
if  I  hadn't  been  kept  at  school  all  my  life." 

46 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Philip's  career  in  college  could  not  have  been 
called  notable.  He  was  not  one  of  the  dozen 
stars  in  the  class-room,  but  he  had  a  reputation 
of  another  sort.  His  classmates  had  a  habit  of 
resorting  to  him  if  they  wanted  to  "  know  any 
thing"  outside  the  text-books,  for  the  range  of 
his  information  seemed  to  them  encyclopaedic. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  escaped  the  reputation  of 
what  is  called  "a  good  fellow."  He  was  not  so 
much  unpopular  as  he  was  unknown  in  the  col 
lege  generally,  but  those  who  did  know  him  were 
tolerant  of  the  fact  that  he  cared  more  for  read 
ing  than  for  college  sports  or  college  politics. 
It  must  be  confessed  that  he  added  little  to  the 
reputation  of  the  university,  since  his  name  was 
never  once  mentioned  in  the  public  prints — search 
has  been  made  since  the  public  came  to  know 
him  as  a  writer — as  a  hero  in  any  crew  or  team 
on  any  game  field.  Perhaps  it  was  a  little  selfish 
that  his  muscle  developed  in  the  gymnasium 
was  not  put  into  advertising  use  for  the  univer 
sity.  The  excuse  was  that  he  had  not  time  to 
become  an  athlete,  any  more  than  he  had  time 
to  spend  three  years  in  the  discipline  of  the  regu 
lar  army,  which  was  in  itself  an  excellent  thing. 

Celia,  in  one  of  her  letters — it  was  during  her 
first  year  at  a  woman's  college,  when  the  devel 
opment  of  muscle  in  gymnastics,  running,  and 
the  vigorous  game  of  ball  was  largely  engaging 
47 


THAT    FORTUNE 

the  attention  of  this  enthusiastic  young  lady — 
took  him  to  task  for  his  inactivity.  "  This  is  the 
age  of  muscle,"  she  wrote ;  "  the  brain  is  useless 
in  a  flabby  body,  and  probably  the  brain  itself  is 
nothing  but  concentrated  intelligent  muscle.  I 
don't  know  how  men  are  coming  out,  but  women 
will  never  get  the  position  they  have  the  right 
to  occupy  until  they  are  physically  the  equals  of 
men." 

Philip  had  replied,  banteringly,  that  if  that 
were  so  he  had  no  desire  to  enter  in  a  physical 
competition  with  women,  and  that  men  had  bet 
ter  look  out  for  another  field. 

But  later  on,  when  Celia  had  got  into  the  swing 
of  the  classics,  and  was  training  for  a  part  in 
the  play  of  "  Antigone,"  she  wrote  in  a  different 
strain,  though  she  would  have  denied  that  the 
change  had  any  relation  to  the  fact  that  she  had 
strained  her  back  in  a  rowing-match.  She  did 
not  apologize  for  her  former  advice,  but  she  was 
all  aglow  about  the  Greek  drama,  and  made  ref 
erence  to  Aspasia  as  an  intellectual  type  of  what 
women  might  become.  "  I  didn't  ever  tell  you 
how  envious  I  used  to  be  when  you  were  study 
ing  Greek  with  that  old  codger  in  Eivervale,  ancl 
could  talk  about  Athens  and  all  that.  Next  time 
we  meet,  I  can  tell  you,  it  will  be  Greek  meets 
Greek.  I  do  hope  you  have  not  dropped  the 
classics  and  gone  in  for  the  modern  notion  of 

48 


THAT    FORTUNE 

being  real  and  practical.  If  I  ever  hear  of  your 
writing  '  real '  poetry — it  is  supposed  to  be  real 
if  it  is  in  dialect  or  misspelled — I  never  will  write 
you  again,  much  less  speak  to  you." 

"Whatever  this  decided  young  woman  was  doing 
at  the  time  she  was  sure  was  the  best  for  every 
body  to  do,  and  especially  for  Master  Phil. 

Now  that  the  days  of  preparation  were  over, 
and  Philip  found  himself  in  New  York,  face  to 
face  with  the  fact  that  he  had  nowhere  to  look 
for  money  to  meet  the  expense  of  rent,  board, 
and  clothes  except  to  his  own  daily  labor,  and 
that  there  was  another  economy  besides  that 
which  he  had  practised  as  to  luxuries,  there  were 
doubtless  hours  when  his  faith  wavered  a  little 
in  the  wisdom  of  the  decision  that  had  invested 
all  his  patrimony  in  himself.  He  had  been  fortu 
nate,  to  be  sure,  in  securing  a  clerk's  desk  in  the 
great  law-office  of  Hunt,  Sharp  &  Tweedle,  and 
he  had  the  kindly  encouragement  of  the  firm 
that,  with  close  application  to  business,  he  would 
make  his  way.  But  even  in  this  he  had  his  mis 
givings,  for  a  great  part  of  his  acquirements,  and 
those  he  most  valued,  did  not  seem  to  be  of  any 
use  in  his  office- work.  He  had  a  lofty  conception 
of  his  chosen  profession,  as  the  right  arm  in  the 
administration  of  justice  between  man  and  man. 
In  practice,  however,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
object  was  to  win  a  case  rather  than  to  do  justice 
D  49 


THAT    FORTUNE 

in  a  case.  Unfortunately,  also,  he  had  cultivated 
his  imagination  to  the  extent  that  he  could  see 
both  sides  of  a  case.  To  see  both  sides  is  indeed 
the  requisite  of  a  great  lawyer,  but  to  see  the 
opposite  side  only  in  order  to  win,  as  in  looking 
over  an  opponent's  hand  in  a  game  of  cards.  It 
seemed  to  Philip  that  this  clear  perception  would 
paralyze  his  efforts  for  one  side  if  he  knew  it  was 
the  wrong  side.  The  argument  was  that  every 
cause — a  man's  claim  or  his  defence — ought  to  be 
presented  in  its  fulness  and  urged  with  all  the 
advocate's  ingenuity,  and  that  the  decision  was 
in  the  bosom  of  an  immaculate  justice  on  the 
bench  and  the  unbiassed  intelligence  in  the  jury- 
box.  This  might  be  so.  But  Philip  wondered 
what  would  be  the  effect  on  his  own  character 
and  on  his  intellect  if  he  indulged  much  in  the 
habit  of  making  the  worse  appear  the  better  cause, 
and  taking  up  indifferently  any  side  that  paid. 
For  himself,  he  was  inclined  always  to  advise 
clients  to  "settle,"  and  he  fancied  that  if  the 
occupation  of  the  lawyer  was  to  explain  the  case 
to  people  ignorant  of  it,  and  to  champion  only 
the  right  side,  as  it  appeared  to  an  unprejudiced, 
legally  trained  mind,  and  to  compose  instead  of 
encouraging  differences,  the  law  would  indeed 
be  a  noble  profession,  and  the  natural  misunder 
standings,  ignorance,  and  different  points  of  view 
would  make  business  enough. 

50 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Stuff !"  said  Mr.  Sharp.  "  If  you  begin  by 
declining  causes  you  disapprove  of,  the  public 
will  end  by  letting  you  alone  in  your  self-con 
ceited  squeamishness.  It's  human  nature  you've 
got  to  deal  with,  not  theories  about  law  and  jus 
tice.  I  tell  you  that  men  like  litigation.  They 
want  to  have  it  out  with  somebody.  And  it  is 
better  than  fisticuffs." 

From  Mr.  Hunt,  who  moved  in  the  serener 
upper  currents  of  the  law,  Philip  got  more  satis 
faction. 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Burnett,  there  are  miserable 
squabbles  in  the  law  practice,  and  contemptible 
pettifoggers  and  knaves,  and  men  who  will  sell 
themselves  for  any  dirty  work,  as  there  are  in 
most  professions  and  occupations,  but  the  profes 
sion  could  not  exist  for  a  day  if  it  was  not  on  the 
whole  on  the  side  of  law  and  order  and  justice. 
No  doubt  it  needs  from  time  to  time  criticism 
and  reformation.  So  does  the  church.  You 
look  at  the  characters  of  the  really  great  law 
yers  !  And  there  is  another  thing.  In  dealing 
with  the  cases  of  our  complex  life,  there  is  no  ac 
complishment,  no  learning  in  science,  art,  or  lit 
erature,  that  the  successful  practitioner  will  not 
find  it  very  advantageous  to  possess.  And  a 
lawyer  will  never  be  eminent  who  has  not  im 
agination." 

Philip  thought  he  had  a  very  good  chance  of 
51 


THAT    FORTUNE 

exercising  his  imagination  in  the  sky  chamber 
where  he  slept — a  capital  situation  from  which 
to  observe  the  world.  There  could  not  have 
been  an  uglier  view  created — a  shapeless  mass  of 
brick  and  stone  and  painted  wood,  a  collected, 
towering  monstrosity  of  rectangular  and  inhar 
monious  lines,  a  realized  dream  of  hideousness — 
but  for  the  splendid  sky,  always  changing  and 
doing  all  that  was  possible  in  the  gleams  and 
shadows  and  the  glowing  colors  of  morning  and 
evening  to  soften  the  ambitious  work  of  man ; 
but  for  the  wide  horizon,  with  patches  of  green 
shores  and  verdant  flats  washed  by  the  kindly 
tide ;  but  for  the  Highlands  and  Staten  Island, 
the  gateway  to  the  ocean ;  but  for  the  great  river 
and  the  mighty  bay  shimmering  and  tAvinkling 
and  often  iridescent,  and  the  animated  life  of 
sails  and  steamers,  the  leviathans  of  commerce 
and  the  playthings  of  pleasure,  and  the  beetle- 
like,  monstrous  ferry  -  boats  that  pushed  their 
noses  through  all  the  confusion,  like  intelligent, 
business-like  saurians  that  knew  how  to  keep  an 
appointed  line  by  a  clumsy  courtesy  of  apparent 
yielding.  Yes,  there  was  life  enough  in  all  this, 
and  inspiration,  if  one  only  knew  what  to  be  in 
spired  about. 

When  Philip  came  home  from  the  office  at 
sunset,  through  the  bustling  streets,  and  climbed 
up  to  his  perch,  he  insensibly  brought  writh  him 

52 


THAT    FORTUNE 

something  of  the  restless  energy  and  strife  of  the 
city,  and  in  this  mood  the  prospect  before  him 
took  on  a  certain  significance  of  great  things  ac 
complished,  of  the  highest  form  of  human  en 
ergy  and  achievement ;  he  was  a  part  of  this  ex 
uberant,  abundant  life,  to  succeed  in  the  struggle 
seemed  easy,  and  for  the  moment  he  possessed 
what  he  saw.  The  little  room  had  space  enough 
for  a  cot  bed,  a  toilet-stand,  a  couple  of  easy- 
chairs — an  easy-chair  is  the  one  article  cf  fur 
niture  absolutely  necessary  to  a  reflecting  student 
— some  well-filled  book-shelves,  a  small  writing- 
desk,  and  a  tiny  closet  quite  large  enough  for  a 
wardrobe  which  seemed  to  have  no  disposition 
to  grow.  Except  for  the  books  and  the  writing- 
desk,  with  its  heterogeneous  manuscripts,  unfin 
ished  or  rejected,  there  was  not  much  in  the  room 
to  indicate  the  taste  of  its  occupant,  unless  you 
knew  that  his  taste  was  exhibited  rather  by  what 
he  excluded  from  the  room  than  by  what  it  con 
tained.  It  must  be  confessed  that,  when  Philip 
was  alone  with  his  books  and  his  manuscripts, 
his  imagination  did  not  expand  in  the  directions 
that  would  have  seemed  profitable  to  the  head  of 
his  firm.  That  life  of  the  town  which  was  roar 
ing  in  his  ears,  that  panorama  of  prosperity 
spread  before  him,  related  themselves  in  his  mind 
not  so  much  as  incitements  to  engage  in  the 
quarrels  of  his  profession  as  something  demand- 

53 


THAT    FORTUNE 

ing  study  and  interpretation,  something  much 
more  human  than  processes  and  briefs  and  argu 
ments.  And  it  was  a  dark  omen  for  his  success 
that  the  world  interested  him  much  more  for  it 
self  than  for  what  he  could  make  out  of  it.  Make 
something  to  be  sure  he  must — so  long  as  he  was 
only  a  law  clerk  on  a  meagre  salary — and  it  was 
this  necessity  that  had  much  to  do  with  the  pro 
duction  of  the  manuscripts.  It  was  a  joke  on 
Philip  in  his  club  —  by-the-way,  the  half-yearly 
dues  were  not  far  off — that  he  was  doing  splen 
didly  in  the  law;  he  already  had  an  extensive 
practice  in  chambers ! 

The  law  is  said  to  be  a  jealous  mistress,  but 
literature  is  a  young  lady  who  likes  to  be  loved 
for  herself  alone,  and  thinks  permission  to  adore 
is  sufficient  reward  for  her  votary.  Common- 
sense  told  Philip  that  the  jealous  mistress  would 
flout  him  and  land  him  in  failure  if  he  gave  her 
a  half-hearted  service ;  but  the  other  young  lady, 
the  Helen  of  the  professions,  was  always  beckon 
ing  him  and  alluring  him  by  the  most  subtle 
arts,  occupying  all  his  hours  with  meditations  on 
her  grace  and  beauty,  till  it  seemed  the  world 
were  well  lost  for  her  smile.  And  the  fasci 
nating  jade  never  hinted  that  devotion  to  her 
brought  more  drudgery  and  harassment  and 
pain  than  any  other  service  in  the  world.  It 
would  not  have  mattered  if  she  had  been  frank, 

54 


THAT    FORTUNE 

and  told  him  that  her  promise  of  eternal  life  was 
illusory  and  her  rewards  commonly  but  a  flatter 
ing  of  vanity.  There  was  no  resisting  her  en 
chantments,  and  he  would  rather  follow  her 
through  a  world  of  sin  and  suffering,  pursuing 
her  radiant  form  over  bog  and  moor,  in  penury 
and  heart -ache,  for  one  sunrise  smile  and  one 
glimpse  of  her  sunset  heaven,  than  to  walk  at 
ease  with  a  commonplace  maiden  on  any  illu 
mined  and  well-trod  highway. 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  is  the  desire  of  every  ambitious  soul  to  en 
ter  Literature  by  the  front  door,  and  the  few 
who  have  patience  and  money  enough  to  live 
without  the  aid  of  the  beckoning  Helen  may 
enter  there.  But  a  side  entrance  is  the  destiny 
of  most  aspirants,  even  those  with  the  golden 
key  of  genius,  and  they  are  a  long  time  in  work 
ing  their  way  to  be  seen  coming  out  of  the  front 
entrance.  It  is  true  that  a  man  can  attract  con 
siderable  and  immediate  attention  by  trving  to 
effect  an  entrance  through  the  sewer,  but  he  sel 
dom  gains  the  respect  of  the  public  whom  he  in 
terests,  any  more  than  an  exhibitor  of  fireworks 
gains  the  reputation  of  an  artist  that  is  accorded 
to  the  painter  of  a  good  picture. 

Philip  was  waiting  at  the  front  door,  with  his 
essays  and  his  prose  symphonies  and  his  satiri 
cal  novel — the  satire  of  a  young  man  is  apt  to  be 
very  bitter — but  it  was  as  tightly  shut  against 
him  as  if  a  publisher  and  not  the  muse  of  litera 
ture  kept  the  door. 

There  was  a  fellow-boarder  with  Philip,  whose 
56 


THAT    FORTUNE 

acquaintance  he  had  made  at  the  common  table 
in  the  basement,  who  appeared  to  be  free  of  the 
world  of  letters  and  art.  He  was  an  alert,  compact, 
neatly  dressed  little  fellow,  who  had  apparently 
improved  every  one  of  his  twenty-eight  years  in 
the  study  of  life,  in  gaining  assurance  and  con 
fidence  in  himself,  and  also  presented  himself  as 
one  who  knew  the  nether  world  completely  but 
was  not  of  it.  He  would  have  said  of  himself 
that  he  knew  it  profoundly,  that  he  frequented  it 
for  "material,"  but  that  his  home  was  in  another 
sphere.  The  impression  was  that  he  belonged 
among  those  brilliant  guerillas  of  both  sexes,  in 
the  border -land  of  art  and  society,  who  lived 
daintily  and  talked  about  life  with  unconventional 
freedom.  Slight  in  figure,  with  very  black  hair, 
and  eyes  of  cloudy  gray,  an  olive  complexion, 
and  features  trained  to  an  immobility  proof 
against  emotion  or  surprise,  the  whole  poised  as 
we  would  say  in  the  act  of  being  gentlemanly, 
it  is  needless  to  say  that  he  took  himself  serious 
ly.  His  readiness,  self-confidence,  cocksureness, 
Philip  thought  all  expressed  in  his  name — Olin 
Brad. 

Mr.  Brad  was  not  a  Bohemian — that  is,  not 
at  all  a  Bohemian  of  the  recognized  type.  His 
fashionable  dress,  closely  trimmed  hair,  and 
dainty  boots  took  him  out  of  that  class.  He 
belonged  to  the  new  order,  which  seems  to  have 
57 


THAT    FORTUNE 

corae  in  with  modern  journalism — that  is,  Bohe 
mian  in  principle,  but  of  the  manners  and  apparel 
of  the  favored  of  fortune.  Mr.  Brad  was  un 
doubtedly  clever,  and  was  down  as  a  bright 
young  man  in  the  list  of  those  who  employed 
talent  which  was  not  dulled  by  conscientious 
scruples.  He  had  stood  well  in  college,  during 
three  years  in  Europe  he  had  picked  up  two  or 
three  languages,  dissipated  his  remaining  small 
fortune,  acquired  expensive  tastes,  and  knowl 
edge,  both  esoteric  and  exoteric,  that  was  valu 
able  to  him  in  his  present  occupation.  Keturn- 
ing  home  fully  equipped  for  a  modern  literary 
career,  and  finding  after  some  bitter  experience 
that  his  accomplishments  were  not  taken  or  paid 
for  at  their  real  value  by  the  caterers  for  intel 
lectual  New  York,  he  had  dropped  into  congenial 
society  on  the  staff  of  the  Daily  Spectrum,  a 
mighty  engine  of  public  opinion,  which  scattered 
about  the  city  and  adjacent  territory  a  million 
of  copies,  as  prodigally  as  if  they  had  been 
auctioneers'  announcements.  Fastidious  people 
who  did  not  read  it  gave  it  a  bad  name,  not  rec 
ognizing  the  classic  and  heroic  attitude  of  those 

O  O 

engaged  in  pitch-forking  up  and  turning  over  the 
muck  of  the  Augean  stables  under  the  pretence 
of  cleaning  them. 

Mr.  Brad  had  a  Socratic  contempt  for  this 
sort  of  fault-finding.     It  was  answer  enough  to 
58 


THAT    FORTUNE 

say,  "  It  pays.  The  people  like  it  or  they  wouldn't 
buy  it.  It  commands  the  best  talent  in  the 
market  and  can  afford  to  pay  for  it ;  even  clergy 
men  like  to  appear  in  its  columns— they  say  it's 
a  providential  chance  to  reach  the  masses.  And 
look  at  the  Morning  Goo -Goo"  (this  was  his 
nick -name  for  one  of  the  older  dailies),  "it 
couldn't  pay  its  paper  bills  if  it  hadn't  such 
a  small  circulation." 

Mr.  Brad,  however,  was  not  one  of  the  editors, 
though  the  acceptance  of  an  occasional  short 
editorial,  sufficiently  piquant  and  impudent  and 
vivid  in  language  to  suit,  had  given  him  hopes. 
He  was  salaried,  but  under  orders  for  special 
service,  and  was  always  in  the  hope  that  the 
execution  of  each  new  assignment  would  bring 
him  into  popular  notice,  which  would  mean  an 
advance  of  position  and  pay. 

Philip  was  impressed  with  the  ready  talent, 
the  adaptable  talent,  and  the  facility  of  this  ac 
complished  journalist,  and  as  their  acquaintance 
improved  he  was  let  into  many  of  the  secrets  of 
success  in  the  profession. 

."  It  isn't  an  easy  thing,"  said  Mr.  Brad,  "  to 
cater  to  a  public  that  gets  tired  of  anything  in 
about  three  days.  But  it  is  just  as  well  satisfied 
with  a  contradiction  as  with  the  original  state 
ment.  It  calls  both  news.  You  have  to  watch 
out  and  see  what  the  people  want,  and  give  ifc 

59 


THAT    FORTUNE 

to  'em.  It  is  something  like  the  purveying  of 
the  manufacturers  and  the  dry-goods  jobber  for 
the  changing  trade  in  fashions ;  only  the  news 
paper  has  the  advantage  that  it  can  turn  a  somer 
sault  every  day  and  not  have  any  useless  stock 
left  on  hand.  The  public  hasn't  any  memor}^ 
or,  if  it  has,  this  whirligig  process  destroys  it. 
"What  it  will  not  submit  to  is  the  lack  of  a  daily 
surprise.  Keep  that  in  your  mind  and  you  can 
make  a  popular  newspaper.  Only,"  continued 
Mr.  Brad,  reflectively,  "you've  got  to  hit  a  lot 
of  different  tastes. 

"  You'd  laugh,"  this  artist  in  emotions  went 
on,  after  a  little  pause,  "  at  some  of  my  assign 
ments.  There  was  a  run  awhile  ago  on  elope 
ments,  and  my  assignment  was  to  have  one  every 
Monday  morning.  The  girl  must  always  be  lovely 
and  refined  and  moving  in  the  best  society ;  elope 
ment  with  the  coachman  preferred,  varied  with 
a  teacher  in  a  Sunday-school.  Invented?  Not 
always.  It  was  surprising  how  many  you  could 
find  ready  made,  if  you  were  on  the  watch.  I  got 
into  the  habit  of  locating  them  in  the  interior  of 
Pennsylvania  as  the  safest  place,  though  Jersey 
seemed  equally  probable  to  the  public.  Did  I 
never  get  caught?  That  made  it  all  the  more 
lively  and  interesting.  Denials,  affidavits,  elab 
orate  explanations,  two  sides  to  any  question ;  if 
it  was  too  hot,  I  could  change  the  name  and 

CO 


THAT    FORTUNE 

shift  the  scene  to  a  still  more  obscure  town.  Or 
it  could  be  laid  to  the  zeal  of  a  local  reporter, 
who  could  give  the  most  ingenious  reasons  for 
his  story.  Once  I  worked  one  of  those  imaginary 
reporters  up  into  such  prominence  for  his  clever 
astuteness  that  my  boss  was  taken  in,  and  asked 
me  to  send  for  him  and  give  him  a  show  on  the 
paper. 

"  Oh  yes,  we  have  to  keep  up  the  domestic 
side.  A  paper  will  not  go  unless  the  women  like 
it.  One  of  the  assignments  I  liked  was  *  Sayings 
of  Our  Little  Ones.'  This  was  for  every  Tuesday 
morning.  Not  more  than  half  a  column.  These 
always  got  copied  by  the  country  press  solid.  It 
is  really  surprising  how  many  bright  things  you 
can  make  children  of  five  and  six  years  say,  if 
you  give  your  mind  to  it.  The  boss  said  that  I 
overdid  it  sometimes  and  made  them  too  bright 
instead  of  '  just  cunning.' 

" '  Psychological  Study  of  Children '  had  a 
great  run.  This  is  the  age  of  science.  Same  with 
animals,  astronomy  —  anything.  If  the  public 
wants  science,  the  papers  will  give  it  science. 

u  After  all,  the  best  hold  for  a  lasting  sensation 
is  an  attack  upon  some  charity  or  public  institu 
tion  ;  show  up  the  abuses,  and  get  all  the  senti 
mentalists  on  your  side.  The  paper  gets  sym 
pathy  for  its  fearlessness  in  serving  the  public 
interests.  It  is  always  easy  to  find  plenty  of 

61 


THAT    FORTUNE 

testimony  from  ill-used  convicts  and  grumbling 
pensioners." 

Undoubtedly  Olin  Brad  was  a  clever  fellow, 
uncommonly  well  read  in  the  surface  literatures 
of  foreign  origin,  and  had  a  keen  interest  in  what 
he  called  the  metaphysics  of  his  own  time.  He 
had  many  good  qualities.  Among  them  friend 
liness  towards  men  and  women  struggling  like 
himself  to  get  up  the  ladder,  and  he  laid  aside 
all  jealousy  when  he  advised  Philip  to  try  his 
hand  at  some  practical  work  on  the  Spectrum. 
What  puzzled  Philip  was  that  this  fabricator  of 
"stories"  for  the  newspaper  should  call  him 
self  a  "  realist."  The  "  story,"  it  need  hardly  be 
explained,  is  newspaper  slang  for  any  incident, 
true  or  invented,  that  is  worked  up  for  dramatic 
effect.  To  state  the  plain  facts  as  the}'  occurred, 
or  might  have  occurred,  and  as  they  could  act 
ually  be  seen  by  a  competent  observer,  would  not 
make  a  story.  The  writer  .must  put  in  color,  and 
idealize  the  scene  and  the  people  engaged  in  it, 
he  must  invent  dramatic  circumstances  and  posi 
tions  and  language,  so  as  to  produce  a  "  picture." 
And  this  picture,  embroidered  on  a  commonplace 
incident,  has  got  the  name  of  "  news."  The 
thread  of  fact  in  this  glittering  web  the  reader 
must  pick  out  by  his  own  wits,  assisted  by  his 
memory  of  what  things  usually  are.  And  the 
public  likes  these  stories  much  better  than  the 

62 


THAT    FORTUNE 

unadorned  report  of  facts.  It  is  accustomed  to 
this  view  of  life,  so  much  so  that  it  fancies  it 
never  knew  what  war  was,  or  what  a  battle  was, 
until  the  novelists  began  to  report  them. 

Mr.  Brad  was  in  the  story  stage  of  his  evolu 
tion  as  a  writer.  His  light  facility  in  it  had  its 
attraction  for  Philip,  but  down  deep  in  his  nat 
ure  he  felt  —  and  the  impression  was  deepened 
by  watching  the  career  of  several  bright  young 
men  and  women  on  the  press — that  indulgence  in 
it  would  result  in  such  intellectual  dishonesty  as 
to  destroy  the  power  of  producing  fiction  that 
should  be  true  to  life.  He  was  so  impressed  by 
the  ability  and  manifold  accomplishments  of  Mr. 
Brad  that  he  thought  it  a  pity  for  him  to  travel 
that  road,  and  one  day  he  asked  him  why  he  did 
not  go  in  for  literature. 

"  Literature  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Brad,  with  some 
irritation ;  "  I  starved  on  literature  for  a  year. 
Who  does  live  on  it,  till  he  gets  beyond  the 
necessity  of  depending  on  it  ?  There  is  a  lot  of 
humbug  talked  about  it.  You  can't  do  anything 
till  you  get  your  name  up.  Some  day  I  will 
make  a  hit,  and  everybody  will  ask,  "  Who  is 
this  daring,  clever  Olin  Brad  ?'  Then  I  can  get 
readers  for  anything  I  choose  to  write.  Look  at 
Champ  Lawson.  He  can't  write  correct  English, 
he  never  will,  he  uses  picturesque  words  in  a  con 
nection  that  makes  you  doubt  if  he  knows  what 
63 


THAT   FORTUNE 

they  mean.  But  he  did  a  dare-devil  thing  pict 
uresquely,  and  now  the  publishers  are  at  his 
feet.  When  I  met  him  the  other  day  he  affected 
to  be  bored  with,  so  much  attention,  and  wished 
he  had  stuck  to  the  livery-stable.  He  began  at 
seventeen  by  reporting  a  runaway  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  hostler." 

"  Well,"  said  Philip,  "isn't  it  quite  in  the  line 
of  the  new  movement  that  we  should  have  an 
introspective  hostler,  who  perhaps  obeys  Sir  Phil 
ip  Sidney's  advice,  i  Look  into  your  heart  and 
write '  ?  I  chanced  the  other  night  in  a  company 
of  the  unconventional  and  illuminated,  the  '  post 
er  '  set  in  literature  and  art,  wild -eyed  and 
anaamic  young  women  and  intensely  languid,  nil 
admirari  young  men,  the  most  advanced  prod 
ucts  of  the  studios  and  of  journalism.  It  was  a 
very  interesting  conclave.  Its  declared  motto 
was,  ;  We  don't  read,  we  write.'  And  the  mem 
bers  were  on  a  constant  strain  to  say  something 
brilliant,  epigrammatic,  original.  The  person 
who  produced  the  most  outre  sentiment  was 
called  '  strong.'  The  women  especially  liked  no 
writing  that  was  not  'strong.'  The  strongest 
man  in  the  company,  and  adored  by  the  women, 
was  the  poet -artist  Courci  Cleves,  who  always 
seems  to  have  walked  straight  out  of  a  fashion- 
plate,  much  deferred  to  in  this  set,  which  affects 
to  defer  to  nothing,  and  a  thing  of  beauty  in  the 

64 


THAT    FORTUNE 

theatre  lobbies.  Mr.  Cleves  gained  much  ap 
plause  for  his  well-considered  wish  that  all  that 
has  been  written  in  the  world,  all  books  and 
libraries,  could  be  destroyed,  so  as  to  give  a 
chance  to  the  new  men  and  the  fresh  ideas  of 
the  new  era." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Brad,  who  did  not  like 
this  caricature  of  his  friends,  "  you  don't  make 
any  allowance  for  the  eccentricities  of  genius." 

"  You  would  hit  it  nearer  if  you  said  I  didn't 
make  allowance  for  the  eccentricities  without 
genius,"  retorted  Philip. 

"Well,"  replied  Mr.  Brad,  taking  his  leave, 
"you  don't  understand  your  world.  You  go 
your  own  way  and  see  where  you  will  come 
out." 

And  when  Philip  reflected  on  it,  he  wondered 
if  it  were  not  rash  to  offend  those  who  had  the 
public  ear,  and  did  up  the  personals  and  minor 
criticisms  for  the  current  prints.  He  was  evi 
dently  out  of  view.  No  magazine  paper  of  his 
had  gained  the  slightest  notice  from  these  sub 
limated  beings,  who  discovered  a  new  genius 
every  month. 

A  few  nights  after  this  conversation  Mr.  Brad 
was  in  uncommon  spirits  at  dinner. 

"  Anything  special  turned  up  ?"  asked  Philip. 

"  Oh,  nothing  much.  Pve  thrown  away  the 
chance  of  the  biggest  kind  of  a  novel  of  Ameri- 
E  65 


THAT    FORTUNE 

can  life.  Only  it  wouldn't  keep.  You  look  in  the 
Spectrum  to-morrow  morning.  You'll  see  some 
thing  interesting." 

"Is  it  a — ?"  and  Philip's  incredulous  expres 
sion  supplied  the  word. 

<fJSTo,  not  a  bit.  And  the  public  is  going  to  be 
deceived  this  time,  sure,  expecting  a  fake.  You 
know  Mavick  ?" 

"  I've  heard  of  him — the  operator,  a  million 
aire." 

"  A  good  many  times.  Used  to  be  minister  or 
consul  or  something  at  Rome.  A  great  swell. 
It's  about  his  daughter,  Evelyn,  a  stunning  girl 
about  sixteen  or  seventeen — not  out  yet." 

"  I  hope  it's  no  scandal." 

"  No,  no,  she's  all  right.  It's  the  way  she's 
brought  up — shows  what  we've  come  to.  They 
say  she's  the  biggest  heiress  in  America  and  a 
raving  beauty,  the  only  child.  She  has  been 
brought  up  like  the  Kohinoor,  never  out  of 
somebody's  sight.  She  has  never  been  alone  one 
minute  since  she  was  born.  Had  three  nurses, 
and  it  was  the  business  of  one  of  them,  in  turn, 
to  keep  an  eye  on  her.  Just  think  of  that. 
Never  was  out  of  the  sight  of  somebody  in  her 
life.  Has  two  maids  now — always  one  in  the 
room,  night  and  day." 

"  What  for?" 

"Why,  the  parents  are  afraid  she'll  be  kid- 
66 


THAT    FORTUNE 

napped,  and  held  for  a  big  ransom.  JSTo,  I  never 
saw  her,  but  I've  got  the  thing  down  to  a  dot. 
Wouldn't  I  like  to  interview  her,  though,  get  her 
story,  how  the  world  looks  to  her.  Under  sur 
veillance  for  sixteen  years!  The  "Prisoner  of 
Chillon  "  is  nothing  to  it  for  romance." 
"  Just  the  facts  are  enough,  I  should  say." 
"Yes,  facts  make  a  good  basis,  sometimes. 
I've  got  'em  all  in,  but  of  course  I've  worked  the 
thing  up  for  all  it  is  worth.  You'll  see.  I  kept 
it  one  day  to  try  and  get  a  photograph.  We've 
got  the  house  and  Mavick,  but  the  girl's  can't  be 
found,  and  it  isn't  safe  to  wait.  We  are  going 
to  blow  it  out  to-morrow  morning." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  Mavick  mansion  was  on  Fifth  Avenue  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Central  Park.  It  was  one 
of  the  buildings  in  the  city  that  strangers  were 
always  taken  to  see.  In  fact,  this  was  a  palace — 
not  one  kind  of  a  palace,  but  all  kinds  of  a  palace. 
The  clever  and  ambitious  architect  of  the  house 
had  grouped  all  the  styles  of  architecture  he 
had  ever  seen,  or  of  which  he  had  seen  pictures. 
Here  was  not  an  architectural  conception,  like  a 
sonnet  or  a  well-constructed  novel,  but  if  all  the 
work  could  have  been  spread  out  in  line,  in  all 
its  variety,  there  would  have  been  produced  a 
panorama.  The  sight  of  the  mansion  always 
caused  wonder  and  generally  ignorant  admiration. 
Its  vastness  and  splendor  were  felt  to  be  some 
how  typical  of  the  New  World  and  of  the  cosmo 
politan  city. 

The  cost,  in  the  eyes  of  the  spectators,  was  a 
great  part  of  its  merits.  No  doubt  this  was  a 
fabulous  sum.  "You  can  form  a  little  idea  of  it," 
said  a  gentleman  to  his  country  friend,  "when 
I  tell  you  that  that  little  bit  there,  that  little 


THAT    FORTUNE 

corner  of  carving  and  decoration,  cost  two  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars!  I  had  this  from  the 
architect  himself." 

"My!" 

The  interior  was  as  fully  representative  of 
wealth  and  of  the  ambition  to  put  under  one 
roof  all  the  notable  effects  of  all  the  palaces 
in  the  world.  But  it  had,  what  most  palaces 
have  not,  all  the  requisites  for  luxurious  living. 
The  variety  of  styles  in  the  rooms  was  bewil 
dering.  Artists  of  distinction,  both  foreign  and 
native,  had  vied  with  each  other  in  the  decora 
tion  of  the  rooms  given  over  to  the  display  of 
their  genius.  All  paganism  and  all  Christianity, 
history,  myth,  and  the  beauties  of  nature  were 
spread  upon  the  walls  and  ceilings.  Rare  woods, 
rare  marbles,  splendid  textures,  the  product  of 
ancient  handiwork  and  modern  looms,  added  a 
certain  dignity  to  the  more  airy  creations  of  the 
artists.  Many  of  the  rooms  were  named  from 
the  nations  whose  styles  of  decoration  and  fur 
nishing  were  imitated  in  them,  but  others  had 
the  simple  designation  of  the  gold-room,  the  sil 
ver-room,  the  lapis -lazuli -room,  and  so  on.  It 
was  not  only  the  show-rooms,  the  halls,  passages, 
stairways,  and  galleries  (both  of  pictures  and  of 
curios)  that  were  thus  enriched,  but  the  boudoirs, 
retiring-rooms,  and  more  private  apartments  as 
well.  It  was  not  simply  a  house  of  luxury,  but 
69 


THAT    FORTUNE 

of  all  the  comfort  that  modern  invention  can 
furnish.  It  was  said  that  the  money  lavished 
upon  one  or  two  of  the  noble  apartments  would 
have  built  a  State-house  (though  not  at  Albany), 
and  that  the  fireplace  in  the  great  hall  cost  as 
much  as  an  imitation  medieval  church.  These 
were  the  things  talked  about,  and  yet  the  por 
tions  of  this  noble  edifice,  rich  as  they  were, 
habitually  occupied  by  the  family  had  another 
character — the  attractions  and  conveniences  of 
what  we  call  a  home.  Mrs.  Mavick  used  to  say 
that  in  her  apartments  she  found  refuge  in  a 
sublimated  domesticity.  Mavick's  own  quarters 
— not  the  study  off  the  library  where  he  re 
ceived  visitors  whom  it  was  necessary  to  impress 
— had  an  executive  appearance,  and  were,  in  the 
necessary  appliances,  more  like  the  interior  bu 
reau  of  a  board  of  trade.  In  fact,  the  witty 
brokers  who  were  admitted  to  its  mysteries 
called  it  the  bucket-shop. 

Mr.  Brad's  article  on  "A  Prisoned  Million 
aire"  more  than  equalled  Philip's  expectations. 
~No  such  "  story  "  had  appeared  in  the  city  press 
in  a  long  time.  It  was  what  was  called,  in  the 
language  of  the  period,  a  work  of  art — that  is, 
a  sensation,  heightened  by  all  the  words  of  color 
in  the  language,  applied  not  only  to  material 
things,  but  to  states  and  qualities  of  mind,  such 
as  "  purple  emotions  "  and  "  scarlet  intrepidity." 

70 


THAT    FORTUNE 

It  was  also  exceedingly  complimentary.  Mavick 
himself  was  one  of  the  powers  and  pillars  of 
American  society,  and  the  girl  was  an  exquisite 
exhibition  of  woodland  bloom  in  the  first  flush 
of  spring-time.  As  he  read  it  over,  Philip  thought 
what  a  fine  advertisement  it  is  to  every  impe 
cunious  noble  in  Europe ! 

That  morning,  before  going  to  his  office,  Philip 
strolled  up  Fifth  Avenue  to  look  at  that  now 
doubly  famous  mansion.  Many  others,  it  ap 
peared,  were  moved  by  the  same  curiosity.  There 
was  already  a  crowd  assembled.  A  couple  of 
policemen,  on  special  duty,  patrolled  the  side 
walk  in  front  in  order  to  keep  a  passage  open, 
and  perhaps  to  prevent  a  too  impudent  inspec 
tion.  Opposite  the  house,  on  the  sidewalk  and 
on  door-steps,  was  a  motley  throng,  largely  made 
up  of  toughs  and  roughs  from  the  East  Side, 
good-natured  spectators  who  merely  wanted  to 
see  this  splendid  prison,  and  a  moving  line  of 
gentlemen  and  ladies  who  simply  happened  to 
be  passing  that  way  at  this  time.  The  curb 
stone  was  lined  with  a  score  of  reporters  of  the 
city  journals,  each  with  his  note  -  book.  Every 
window  and  entrance  was  eagerly  watched.  It 
was  hoped  that  one  of  the  family  might  be 
seen,  or  that  some  servant  might  appear  who 
could  be  interviewed.  Upon  the  windows,  sup 
posed  by  the  reporters  to  be  those  from  which 

71 


THAT    FORTUNE 

the  heiress  looked,  a  strict  watch  was  kept. 
The  number,  form,  and  location  of  these  win 
dows  were  accurately  noted,  the  stuff  of  the  cur 
tains  described  in  the  phrase  of  the  upholsterer, 
and  much  good  language  was  devoted  to  the 
view  from  these  windows.  The  shrewdest  of 
the  reporters  had  already  sought  information 
as  to  the  interior  from  the  flower  dealers,  from 
upholsterers,  from  artists  who  had  been  employed 
in  the  decorations,  and  had  even  assailed,  in  the 
name  of  the  rights  of  the  public  whom  they 
represented,  the  architects  of  the  building ;  but 
their  chief  reliance  was  upon  the  waiters  fur 
nished  by  the  leading  caterers  on  occasions  of 
special  receptions  and  great  dinners,  and  milli 
ners  and  dress-makers,  who  had  penetrated  the 
more  domestic  apartments.  By  reason  of  this 
extraordinary  article  in  the  newspaper,  the  pub 
lic  had  acquired  the  right  to  know  all  about  the 
private  life  of  the  Mavick  family. 

This  right  was  not  acknowledged  by  Mr.  Ma 
vick  and  his  family.  Of  course  the  object  of  the 
excitement  was  wholly  ignorant  of  the  cause  of 
it,  as  no  daily  newspaper  was  ever  seen  by  her 
that  had  not  been  carefully  inspected  by  the 
trusted  and  intelligent  governess.  The  crowd 
in  front  of  the  mansion  was  accounted  for  by 
the  statement  that  a  picture  of  it  had  appeared 
in  one  of  the  low  journals,  and  there  was  natu- 

72 


THAT    FORTUNE 

rally  a  curiosity  to  see  it.  And  Evelyn  was  told 
that  this  was  one  of  the  penalties  a  man  paid 
for  being  popular. 

Mrs.  Mavick,  who  seldom  lost  her  head,  was 
thoroughly  frightened  and  upset,  arid  it  was  a 
rare  occasion  that  could  upset  the  equanimity 
of  the  late  widow,  Mrs.  Carmen  Henderson. 
She  gave  way  to  her  passion,  and  demanded 
that  the  offending  editor  should  be  pursued  with 
the  utmost  rigor  of  the  law.  Mr.  Mavick  was  not 
less  annoyed  and  angry,  but  he  smiled  when 
his  wife  talked  of  pursuing  the  press  with  the 
utmost  rigor  of  the  law,  and  said  that  he  would 
give  the  matter  prompt  attention.  That  day  he 
had  an  interview  with  the  editor  of  the  Daily 
Spectrum,  which  was  satisfactory  to  both  par 
ties.  The  editor  would  have  said  that  Mavick 
behaved  like  a  gentleman.  The  result  of  the 
interview  appeared  in  the  newspaper  of  the  fol 
lowing  morning.  Mr.  Mavick  had  requested  that 
the  offending  reporter  should  be  cautioned ;  he 
was  too  wise  to  have  further  attention  called 
to  the  matter  by  demanding  his  dismissal.  Ac 
cordingly  the  reporter  was  severely  reprimanded, 
and  then  promoted. 

The  editorial,  which  was  written  by  Mr.  Olin 
Brad,  and  was  in  his  best  Macaulay  style,  began 
somewhat  humorously  by  alluding  to  the  cu 
rious  interest  of  the  public  in  ancient  history, 
73 


THAT    FORTUNE 

citing  Mr.  Fronde  and  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  the  le 
gend  of  Casper  Hauser.  It  was  true,  gradually 
approaching  the  case  in  point,  that  uncommon 
precautions  had  been  taken  in  the  early  years 
of  the  American  heiress,  and  it  was  the  romance 
of  the  situation  that  had  been  laid  before  the 
readers  of  the  Spectrum.  But  there  had  been 
really  no  danger  in  our  chivalrous,  free  Ameri 
can  society,  and  all  these  precautions  were  long 
a  thing  of  the  past  (which  was  not  true).  In 
short,  with  elaboration  and  great  skill,  and  some 
humor,  the  exaggerations  of  the  former  article 
were  minimized,  and  put  in  an  airy  and  unsub 
stantial  light.  And  then  this  friend  of  the  peo 
ple,  this  exposer  of  abuses  and  champion  of 
virtue,  turned  and  justly  scored  the  sensational 
press  for  prying  into  the  present  life  of  one  of 
the  first  families  in  the  country.  Incidentally, 
it  was  mentioned  that  the  ladies  of  the  family 
had  before  this  incident  bespoken  their  passage 
for  their  annual  visit  to  Europe,  and  that  this 
affair  had  not  disturbed  their  arrangements 
(which  also  was  not  true).  This  casual  announce 
ment  was  intended  to  draw  away  attention  from 
the  Fifth  Avenue  house,  and  to  notify  the  roughs 
that  it  would  be  useless  to  lay  any  plans. 

The  country  press,  which  had  far  and  wide 
printed  the  interesting  story,  softened  it  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  later  development.  Possibly 

74 


THAT    FORTUNE 

no  intelligent  person  was  deceived,  but  in  the  es 
timation  of  the  mass  of  the  people  the  Spectrum 
increased  its  reputation  for  enterprise  and  smart 
ness  and  gave  also  an  impression  of  its  fairness. 
The  manager  told  Mr.  Brad  that  the  increased 
sales  of  the  two  clays  permitted  the  establish 
ment  to  give  him  a  vacation  of  two  weeks  on 
full  pay,  and  during  these  weeks  the  manager 
himself  set  up  a  neat  and  modest  brougham. 

All  of  which  events,  only  partially  understood, 
Mr.  Philip  Burnett  revolved  in  his  mind,  and 
wondered  if  what  was  called  success  was  worth 
the  price  paid  for  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  name  of  Thomas  Mavick  has  lost  the 
prominence  and  significance  it  had  at  the  time 
the  events  recorded  in  this  history  were  taking 
place.  It  seems  incredible  that  the  public  should 
so  soon  have  lost  interest  in  him.  His  position 
in  the  country  was  most  conspicuous.  No  name 
was  more  frequently  in  the  newspapers.  No  other 
person  not  in  official  life  was  so  often  interviewed. 
The  reporters  instinctively  turned  to  him  for  in 
formation  in  matters  financial,  concerning  deals, 
and  commercial,  which  were  so  commonly  con 
nected  with  political,  enterprises.  No  loan  was 
negotiated  without  consulting  him,  no  operation 
was  considered  safe  without  knowing  how  he 
was  affected  towards  it,  and  to  ascertain  what 
Mavick  was  doing  or  thinking  was  a  constant 
anxiety  in  the  Street.  Of  course  the  opinion  of 
a  man  so  powerful  was  very  important  in  poli 
tics,  and  any  church  or  sect  would  be  glad  to 
have  his  support.  The  fact  that  he  and  his 
family  worshipped  regularly  at  St.  Agnes's  was 
a  guarantee  of  the  stability  of  that  church,  and 
76 


THAT    FORTUNE 

incidentally  marked  the  success  of  the  Christian 
religion  in  the  metropolis. 

But  the  condition  of  the  presence  in  the  pub 
lic  mind  of  the  name  of  a  great  operator  and 
accumulator  of  money  who  is  merely  that  is 
either  that  he  go  on  accumulating,  so  that  the 
magnitude  of  his  wealth  has  few  if  any  rivals, 
or  that  his  name  become  synonomous  with  some 
gigantic  cleverness,  if  not  rascality,  so  that  it  is 
used  as  an  adjective  after  he  and  his  wealth 
have  disappeared  from  the  public  view.  It  is 
different  with  the  reputation  of  an  equally  great 
financier  who  has  used  his  ability  for  the  ser 
vice  of  his  country.  There  is  no  Yalhalla  for 
the  mere  accumulators  of  money.  They  are  fort 
unate  if  their  names  are  forgotten,  and  not  re 
membered  as  illustrations  of  colossal  selfishness, 

Mavick  may  have  been  the  ideal  of  many  a 
self-made  man,  but  he  did  not  make  his  fortune 
— he  married  it.  And  it  was  suspected  that  the 
circumstances  attending  that  marriage  put  him 
in  complete  control  of  it.  He  came  into  pos 
session,  however,  with  cultivated  shrewdness  and 
tact  and  large  knowledge  of  the  world,  the  world 
of  diplomacy  as  well  as  of  business.  And  under 
his  manipulation  the  vast  fortune  so  acquired 
was  reported  to  have  been  doubled.  It  was  at 
any  rate  almost  fabulous  in  the  public  estimation. 

"When  the  charming  widow  of  the  late  Rodney 
77 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Henderson,  then  sojourning  in  Rome,  placed  her 
attractive  self  and  her  still  more  attractive  fort 
une  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Thomas  Mavick,  United 
States  Minister  to  the  Court  of  Italy,  she  at 
tained  a  position  in  the  social  world  which  was 
in  accord  with  her  ambition,  and  Mavick  acquired 
the  means  of  making  the  mission,  in  point  of 
comparison  with  the  missions  of  the  other  pow 
ers  at  the  Italian  capital,  a  credit  to  the  Great 
Eepublic.  The  match  was  therefore  a  brilliant 
one,  and  had  a  sort  of  national  importance. 

Those  who  knew  Mrs.  Mavick  in  the  remote 
past,  when  she  was  the  fascinating  and  not  defi 
nitely  placed   Carmen   Eschelle,  and  who   also 
knew  Mr.  Mavick  when  he  was  the  confidential 
agent  of  Rodney   Henderson,  knew   that  their 
union  wras  a  convenient  and  material  alliance,  in 
which  the  desire  of  each  party  to  enjoy  in  free 
dom  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world  could  be  grati 
fied  while  retaining  the  social  consideration  of  the 
world.   Both  had  always  been  circumspect.   And 
it  ma}7"  be  added,  for  the  information  of  stran 
gers,  that  they  thoroughly  knew  each  other,  and 
were  participants  in  a  knowledge  that  put  each 
at  disadvantage,  so  that  their  wedded  life  was 
a  permanent  truce.     This  bond  of  union  was  not 
ideal,  and  not  the  best  for  the  creation  of  indi 
vidual  character,  but  it  avoided  an  exhibition 
of  those  public  antagonisms  which  so  grieve  and 
78 


THAT    FORTUNE 

disturb  the  even,  flow  of  the  current  of  society, 
and  give  occasion  to  so  much  witty  comment 
on  the  institution  of  marriage  itself. 

When,  some  two  years  after  Mr.  Mavick  re 
linquished  the  mission  to  Italy  to  another  states 
man  who  had  done  some  service  to  the  opposite 
party,  an  heiress  was  born  to  the  house  of  Ma 
vick,  her  appearance  in  the  world  occasioned 
some  disappointment  to  those  who  had  caused 
it.  Mavick  naturally  wished  a  son  to  inherit- 
his  name  and  enlarge  the  gold  foundation  upon 
which  its  perpetuity  must  rest ;  and  Mrs.  Mavick 
as  naturally  shrank  from  a  responsibility  that 
promised  to  curtail  freedom  of  action  in  the  life 
she  loved.  Carmen  —  it  was  an  old  saying  of 
the  danglers  in  the  time  of  Henderson — was  a 
domestic  woman  except  in  her  own  home. 

However,  it  is  one  of  the  privileges  of  wealth 
to  lighten  the  cares  and  duties  of  maternity, 
and  the  enlarged  household  was  arranged  upon 
a  basis  that  did  not  interfere  with  the  life  of 
fashion  and  the  charitable  engagements  of  the 
mother.  Indeed,  this  adaptable  woman  soon 
found  that  she  had  become  an  object  of  more 
than  usual  interest,  by  her  latest  exploit,  in  the 
circles  in  which  she  moved,  and  her  softened 
manner  and  edifying  conversation  showed  that 
she  appreciated  her  position.  Even  the  McTav- 
ishes,  who  were  inclined  to  be  sceptical,  said  that 
79 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Carmen  was  delightful  in  her  new  role.  This 
showed  that  the  information  Mrs.  Mavick  got 
from  the  women  who  took  care  of  her  baby 
was  of  a  kind  to  touch  the  hearts  of  mothers 
and  spinsters. 

Moreover,  the  child  was  very  pretty,  and  early 
had  winning  ways.  The  nurse,  before  the  baby 
was  a  year  old,  discovered  in  her  the  cleverness 
of  the  father  and  the  grace  and  fascination  of 
the  mother.  And  it  must  be  said  that,  if  she 
did  not  excite  passionate  affection  at  first,  she  en 
listed  paternal  and  maternal  pride  in  her  career. 
It  dawned  upon  both  parents  that  a  daughter 
might  give  less  cause  for  anxiety  than  a  son, 
and  that  in  an  heiress  there  were  possibilities 
of  an  alliance  that  would  give  great  social  dis 
tinction.  Considering,  therefore,  all  that  she  rep 
resented,  and  the  settled  conviction  of  Mrs.  Ma 
vick  that  she  would  be  the  sole  inheritor  of  the 
fortune,  her  safety  and  education  became  objects 
of  the  greatest  anxiety  and  precaution. 

It  happened  that  about  the  time  Evelyn  was 
christened  there  was  a  sort  of  epidemic  of  steal 
ing  children,  and  of  attempts  to  rob  tombs  of 
occupants  who  had  died  rich  or  distinguished,  in 
the  expectation  of  a  ransom.  The  newspapers 
often  chronicled  mysterious  disappearances ;  par 
ents  whose  names  were  conspicuous  suffered  great 
anxiety,  and  extraordinary  precautions  were  taken 
80 


THAT    FORTUNE 

in  regard  to  the  tombs  of  public  men.  And  this 
was  the  reason'.that  the  heiress  of  the  house  of 
Mavick  became  the  object  of  a  watchful  vigilance 
that  was  probably  never  before  exercised  in  a  re 
public,  and  that  could  only  be  paralleled  in  the 
case  of  a  sole  heir-apparent  of  royalty. 

These  circumstances  resulted  in  an  interference 
with  the  laws  of  nature  which  it  must  be  con 
fessed  destroyed  one  of  the  most  interesting  stud 
ies  in  heredity  that  was  ever  offered  to  an  histo 
rian  of  social  life.  What  sort  of  a  child  had  we  a 
right  to  expect  from  Thomas  Mavick,  diplomatist 
and  operator,  successor  to  the  rights  and  wrongs 
of  Rodney  Henderson,  and  Carmen  Mavick,  with 
the  past  of  Carmen  Eschelle  and  Mrs.  Hender 
son  ?  Those  who  adhered  to  the  strictest  appli 
cation  of  heredity,  in  considering  the  natural 
development  of  Evelyn  Mavick,  sought  refuge 
in  the  physiological  problem  of  the  influence  of 
Rodney  Henderson,  and  declared  that  something 
of  his  New  England  sturdiness  and  fundamental 
veracity  had  been  imparted  to  the  inheritor  of 
his  great  fortune. 

But  the  visible  interference  took  the  form  of 
Ann  McDonald,  a  Scotch  spinster,  to  whom  was 
intrusted  the  care  of  Evelyn  as  soon  as  she  was 
christened.  It  was  merely  a  piece  of  good  fort 
une  that  brought  a  person  of  the  qualifications 
of  Ann  McDonald  into  the  family,  for  it  is  not 

F  81 


THAT    FORTUNE 

to  be  supposed  that  Mrs.  Mavick  had  given  any 
thought  to  the  truth  that  the  important  educa 
tion  of  a  child  begins  in  its  cradle,  or  that  in 
selecting  a  care-taker  and  companion  who  should 
later  on  be  a  governess  she  was  consulting  her 
own  desire  of  freedom  from  the  duties  of  a  mother. 
It  was  enough  for  her  that  the  applicant  for  the 
position  had  the  highest  recommendations,  that 
she  was  prepossessing  in  appearance,  and  it  was 
soon  perceived  that  the  guardian  was  truth 
ful,  faithful,  vigilant,  and  of  an  affectionate  dis 
position  and  an  innate  refinement. 

Ann  McDonald  was  the  only  daughter  of  a 
clergyman  of  the  Scotch  Church,  and  brought 
up  in  the  literary  atmosphere  common  in  the 
most  cultivated  Edinburgh  homes.  She  had  been 
accurately  educated,  and  always  with  the  knowl 
edge  that  her  education  might  be  her  capital  in 
life.  After  the  death  of  her  mother,  when  she 
was  nineteen,  she  had  been  her  father's  house 
keeper,  and  when  in  her  twenty-fourth  year  her 
father  relinquished  his  life  and  his  salary,  she 
decided,  under  the  advice  of  influential  friends, 
to  try  her  fortune  in  America.  And  she  never 
doubted  that  it  was  a  providential  guidance  that 
brought  her  into  intimate  relations  with  the  in 
fant  heiress.  It  seemed  probable  that  a  woman 
so  attractive  and  so  solidly  accomplished  would 
not  very  long  remain  a  governess,  but  in  fact  her 
82 


THAT    FORTUNE 

career  was  chosen  from  the  moment  she  became 
interested  in  the  development  of  the  mind  and 
character  of  the  child  intrusted  to  her  care.  It  is 
difficult  to  see  how  our  modern  life  would  go  on 
as  well  as  it  does  if  there  were  not  in  our  homes 
a  good  many  such  faithful  souls.  It  sometimes 
seems,  in  this  shifting  world,  that  about  the  best 
any  of  us  can  do  is  to  prepare  some  one  else  for 
doing  something  well. 

Miss  McDonald  had  a  pretty  comprehensive 
knowledge  of  English  literature  and  history,  and, 
Better  perhaps  than  mere  knowledge,  a  discrim 
inating  and  cultivated  taste.  If  her  religious 
education  had  twisted  her  view  of  the  fine  arts, 
she  had  nevertheless  a  natural  sympathy  for 
the  beautiful,  and  she  would  not  have  been  a 
Scotchwoman  if  she  had  not  had  a  love  for  the 
romances  of  her  native  land  and  at  heart  a  "  bal 
lad  "  sentiment  for  the  cavaliers.  If  Evelyn  had 
been  educated  by  her  in  Edinburgh,  she  might 
have  been  in  sentiment  a  young  Jacobite.  She 
had  through  translations  a  sufficient  knowledge 
of  the  classics  to  give  her  the  necessary  literary 
background,  and  her  study  of  Latin  had  led  her 
into  the  more  useful  acquisition  of  French.  If 
she  had  been  free  to  indulge  her  own  taste,  she 
would  have  gone  far  in  natural  history,  as  was 
evident  from  her  mastery  of  botany  and  her 
interest  in  birds. 

83 


THAT    FORTUNE 

She  inspired  so  much  confidence  by  her  good 
sense,  clear-headedness,  and  discretion,  that  al 
most  from  the  first  Evelyn  was  confided  to  her 
sole  care,  with  only  the  direction  that  the  haby 
was  never  for  an  instant,  night  or  day,  to  be 
left  out  of  the  sight  of  a  trusty  attendant.  The 
nurse  was  absolutely  under  her  orders,  she  se 
lected  the  two  maids,  and  no  person  except  the 
parents  and  the  governess  could  admit  visitors 
to  the  nursery.  This  perfect  organization  was 
maintained  for  many  years,  and  though  it  came 
to  be  relaxed  in  details,  it  was  literally  true  that 
the  heiress  was  never  alone,  and  never  out  of  the 
sight  of  some  trusted  person  responsible  for  her 
safety.  But  whatever  the  changes  or  relaxation, 
in  holidays,  amusements,  travel,  or  education,  the 
person  who  formed  her  mind  was  the  one  who 
had  taught  her  to  obey,  to  put  words  together 
into  language,  and  to  speak  the  truth,  from  in 
fancy. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  consider  Ann  McDon 
ald  as  a  paragon.  She  was  simply  an  intelli 
gent,  disciplined  woman,  with  a  strong  sense  of 
duty.  If  she  had  married  and  gone  about  the 
ordinary  duties  of  life  at  the  age  of  twenty -four, 
she  would  probably  have  been  in  no  marked  way 
distinguished  among  women.  Her  own  develop 
ment  was  largely  due  to  the  responsibility  that 
was  put  upon  her  in  the  training  of  another 

84 


THAT    FORTUNE 

person.  In  this  sense  it  was  true  that  she  had 
learned  as  much  as  she  had  imparted.  And 
in  nothing  was  this  more  evident  than  in  the 
range  of  her  literary  taste  and  judgment.  What 
ever  risks,  whatever  latitude  she  might  have  been 
disposed  to  take  with  regard  to  her  own  mind, 
she  would  not  take  as  to  the  mind  of  another, 
and  as  a  consequence  her  own  standards  rose  to 
meet  the  situation.  That  is  to  say,  in  a  consci 
entious  selection  of  only  the  best  for  Evelyn, 
she  became  more  fastidious  as  to  the  food  for 
her  own  mind.  Or,  to  put  it  in  still  another 
way,  in  regard  to  character  and  culture  gener 
ally,  the  growth  of  Miss  McDonald  could  be 
measured  by  that  of  Evelyn. 

"When,  from  the  time  Evelyn  was  seven  years 
old,  it  became  necessary  in  her  education  to  call 
in  special  tutors  in  the  languages  and  in  mathe 
matics,  and  in  certain  arts  that  are  generally 
called  accomplishments,  Miss  McDonald  was  al 
ways  present  when  the  lessons  were  given,  so 
that  she  maintained  her  ascendency  and  her  in 
fluence  in  the  girl's  mind.  It  was  this  insepa 
rable  companionship,  at  least  in  all  affairs  of  the 
mind,  that  gave  to  this  educational  experiment 
an  exceptional  interest  to  students  of  psychology. 

Nothing  could  be  more  interesting  than  to 
come  into  contact  with  a  mind  that  from  in 
fancy  onward  had  dwelt  only  upon  what  is 
85 


THAT    FORTUNE 

noblest  in  literature,  and  from  which  had  been 
excluded  all  that  is  enervating  and  degrading. 
A  remarkable  illustration  of  this  is  the  familiar 
case  of  Helen  Keller,  whose  acquisitions,  by  rea 
son  of  her  blindness  and  deafness,  were  limited 
to  what  was  selected  for  her,  and  that  mainly  by 
one  person,  and  she  was  therefore  for  a  long  time 
shielded  from  a  knowledge  of  the  evil  side  of 
life.  Yet  all  vital  literature  is  so  close  to  life, 
and  so  full  of  its  passion  and  peril,  that  it  sup 
plies  all  the  necessary  aliment  for  the  growth  of 
a  sound,  discriminating  mind ;  and  that  knowledge 
of  the  world,  as  knowledge  of  evil  is  euphuisti- 
cally  called,  can  be  safely  left  out  of  a  good  edu 
cation.  This  may  be  admitted  without  going 
into  the  discussion  whether  good  principles  and 
standards  in  literature  and  morals  are  a  sufficient 
equipment  for  the  perils  of  life. 

This  experiment,  of  course,  was  limited  in  Eve 
lyn's  case.  She  came  in  contact  with  a  great 
deal  of  life.  Her  little  world  was  fairly  repre 
sentative,  for  it  contained  her  father,  her  mother, 
her  governess,  the  maids  and  the  servants,  and 
occasional  visitors,  whom  she  saw  freely  as  she 
grew  older.  The  interesting  fact  was  that  she 
was  obliged  to  judge  this  world  according  to  the 
standards  of  literature,  morals,  and  manners  that 
had  been  implanted  in  her  mainly  by  the  influence 
of  one  person. 

86 


THAT    FORTUNE 

The  important  part  of  this  experiment  of  par 
tial  exclusion,  in  which  she  was  never  alone — an 
experiment  undertaken  solely  for  her  safety  and 
not  for  her  training — was  seen  in  her  when  she 
became  conscious  of  its  abnormal  character,  and 
perceived  that  she  was  always  under  surveillance. 
It  might  have  made  her  exceedingly  morbid, 
aside  from  its  effect  of  paralyzing  her  self-con 
fidence  and  power  of  initiation,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  exceptionally  strong  and  cheerful  nature 
of  her  companion.  A  position  more  hateful,  even 
to  a  person  not  specially  socially  inclined,  cannot 
be  imagined  than  that  of  always  being  watched, 
and  never  having  any  assured  privacy.  And  un 
der  such  a  tutelage  and  dependence,  how  in  any 
event  could  she  be  able  to  take  care  of  herself  ? 

What  weapons  had  this  heiress  of  a  great  fort 
une  with  which  to  defend  herself?  What  sort 
of  a  girl  had  this  treatment  during  seventeen 
years  produced  ? 


CHAPTER  VIII 

To  the  private  apartment  of  Mr.  Mavick,  in  the 
evening  of  the  second  eventful  day,  where,  over 
his  after  -  dinner  cigar,  he  was  amusing  himself 
with  a  French  novel,  enters,  after  a  little  warn 
ing  tap,  the  mistress  of  the  house,  for,  what  was 
a  rare  occurrence,  a  little  family  chat. 

"  So  you  didn't  horsewhip  and  you  didn't  pros 
ecute.  You  preferred  to  wriggle  out !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mavick,  too  much  pleased  with 
the  result  to  be  belligerent,  "  I  let  the  newspaper 
do  the  wriggling." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  can  trust  you  for  that.  Have 
you  any  idea  how  it  got  hold  of  the  details  ?" 

"  No  ;  you  don't  think  McDonald—" 

"  McDonald !  I'd  as  soon  suspect  myself.  So 
would  you." 

"  Well,  everybody  knew  it  already,  for  that 
matter.  I  only  wonder  that  some  newspaper 
didn't  get  on  to  it  before.  What  did  Evelyn 
say?" 

"  Nothing  more  than  what  you  heard  at  din 
ner.  She  thought  it  amusing  that  there  should 
88 


THAT    FORTUNE 

be  such  a  crowd  to  gaze  at  the  house,  simply  be 
cause  a  picture  of  it  had  appeared  in  a  newspa 
per.  She  thought  her  father  must  be  a  very  im 
portant  personage.  I  didn't  undeceive  her.  At 
times,  you  know,  dear,  I  think  so  myself." 

"  Yes,  I've  noticed  that,"  said  Mavick,  with  a 
good-natured  laugh,  in  which  Carmen  joined, 
"  and  those  times  usually  coincide  with  the  times 
that  you  want  something  specially." 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  take  me  up  that 
way.  I  just  wanted  to  talk  about  the  coming- 
out  reception.  You  know  I  had  come  over  to 
your  opinion  that  seventeen  was  perhaps  better 
than  eighteen,  considering  Evelyn's  maturity. 
When  I  was  seventeen  I  was  just  as  good  as  I 
am  now." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  Mavick,  with  another 
laugh. 

"  But  don't  you  see  this  affair  upsets  all  our 
arrangements  ?  It's  very  vexatious." 

"  I  don't  see  it  exactly.  By-the-way,  what  do 
you  think  of  the  escape  suggested  by  the  Spec 
trum,  in  the  assertion  that  you  and  Evelyn  had 
arranged  to  go  to  Europe?  The  steamer  sails 
to-morrow." 

"  Think !"  exclaimed  Carmen.  "  Do  you  think 
I  am  going  to  be  run,  as  you  call  it,  by  the  news 
papers  ?  They  run  everything  else.  I'm  not 
politics,  I'm  not  an  institution,  I'm  not  even  a 
89 


THAT    FORTUNE 

revolution.  Ko,  I  thank  you.  It  answers  my 
purpose  for  them  to  say  we  have  gone." 

"  I  suppose  you  can  keep  in-doors  a  few  days. 
As  to  the  reception,  I  had  arranged  my  business 
for  it.  I  may  be  in  Mexico  or  Honolulu  the  fol 
lowing  winter." 

"  Well,  we  can't  have  it  now.     You  see  that." 

"  Carmen,  I  don't  care  a  rap  what  the  public 
thinks  or  says.  The  child's  got  to  face  the 
world  some  time,  and  look  out  for  herself.  I 
fancy  she  will  not  like  it  as  much  as  you  did." 

"Very  likely.  Perhaps  I  liked  it  because  I 
had  to  fight  it.  Evelyn  never  will  do  that." 

"  She  hasn't  the  least  idea  what  the  world  is 
like." 

"Don't  you  be  too  sure  of  that,  my  dear;  you 
don't  understand  yet  what  a  woman  feels  and 
knows.  You  think  she  only  sees  and  thinks 
what  she  is  told.  The  conceit  of  men  is  most 
amusing  about  this.  Evelyn  is  deeper  than  you 
think.  The  discrimination  of  that  child  some 
times  positively  frightens  me — how  she  sees  into 
things.  It  wouldn't  surprise  me  a  bit  if  she 
actually  knew  her  father  and  mother !" 

"  Then  she  beats  me,"  said  Mavick,  with  an 
other  laugh,  "  and  I've  been  at  it  a  long  time. 
Carmen,  just  for  fun,  tell  me  a  little  about  your 
early  life." 

"  Well " — there  was  a  Madonna-like  smile  on 

90 


THAT    FORTUNE 

her  lips,  and  she  put  out  the  toe  of  her  slender 
foot  and  appeared  to  study  it  for  a  moment — "  I 
was  intended  to  be  a  nun." 

"Spanish  or  French  ?" 

"  Just  a  plain  nun.  But  mamma  would  not 
hear  of  it.  Mamma  was  just  a  bit  worldly." 

"  I  never  should  have  suspected  it,"  said  Ma- 
vick,  with  equal  gravity.  "  But  how  did  you 
live  in  those  early  days,  way  back  there  ?" 

"  Oh !"  and  Carmen  looked  up  with  the  most 
innocent,  open  -  eyed  expression,  "  we  lived  on 
our  income." 

"Naturally.  We  all  try  to  do  that."  The 
tone  in  Mavick's  voice  showed  that  he  gave  it  up. 

"  But,  of  course,"  and  Carmen  was  lively  again, 
"  it's  much  nicer  to  have  a  big  income  that's  cer 
tain  than  a  small  one  that  is  uncertain." 

"  It  would  seem  so." 

"  Ah,  deary  me,  it's  such  a  world !  Don't  you 
think,  dear,  that  we  have  had  enough  domestic 
notoriety  for  one  year  ?" 

"  Quite.     It  would  do  for  several." 

"  And  we  will  put  it  off  a  year  ?" 

"  Arrange  as  you  like."  And  Mavick  stretched 
up  his  arms,  half  yawned,  and  took  up  another 
cigar. 

"  It  will  be  such  a  relief  to  McDonald.  She 
insisted  it  was  too  soon."  And  Carmen  whirled 
out  of  her  chair,  went  behind  her  husband,  lift- 
91 


THAT    FORTUNE 

ed  with  her  delicate  fingers  a  lock  of  grayish 
hair  on  his  forehead,  deposited  the  lightest  kiss 
there — "  Nobody  in  the  world  knows  how  good 
you  are  except  me" — and  was  gone. 

And  the  rich  man,  who  had  gained  everything 
he  wanted  in  life  except  happiness,  lighted  his 
cigar  and  sought  refuge  in  a  tale  of  modern  life, 
that  was,  however,  too  much  like  his  own  history 
to  be  consoling. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  from  what  she  said 
that  Mrs.  Mavick  stood  in  fear  of  her  daughter, 
but  it  was  only  natural  that  for  a  woman  of  the 
world  the  daily  contact  of  a  pure  mind  should  be 
at  times  inconvenient.  This  pure  mind  was  an 
awful  touchstone  of  conduct,  and  there  was  a 
fear  that  Evelyn's  ignorance  of  life  would  pre 
vent  her  from  making  the  proper  allowances.  In 
her  affectionate  and  trusting  nature,  which  sus 
pected  little  evil  anywhere,  there  was  no  doubt 
that  her  father  and  mother  had  her  entire  con 
fidence  and  love.  But  the  likelihood  was  that 
she  would  not  be  pliant.  Under  Miss  McDonald's 
influence  she  had  somewhat  abstract  notions  of 
what  is  right  and  wrong,  and  she  saw  no  reason 
why  these  should  not  be  applied  in  all  cases. 
What  her  mother  would  have  called  policy  and 
reasonable  concessions  she  would  have  given  dif 
ferent  names.  For  getting  on  in  the  world,  this 
state  of  mind  has  its  disadvantages,  and  in  the 
92 


THAT    FORTUNE 

opinion  of  practical  men,  like  Mavick,  it  was  nec 
essary  to  know  good  and  evil.  But  it  was  the 
girl's  power  of  discernment  that  bothered  her 
mother,  who  used  often  to  wonder  where  the 
child  came  from. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  must  not  be  supposed 
that  the  singular  training  of  Evelyn  had  ab 
solutely  destroyed  her  inherited  tendencies,  or 
made  her  as  she  was  growing  into  womanhood 
anything  but  a  very  real  woman,  with  the  re 
serves,  the  weaknesses,  the  coquetries,  the  de 
fences  which  are  the  charm  of  her  sex.  Nor 
was  she  so  ignorant  of  life  as  such  a  guarded 
personality  might  be  thought.  Her  very  wide 
range  of  reading  had  liberalized  her  mind,  and 
given  her  a  much  wider  outlook  upon  the  strug 
gles  and  passions  and  failures  and  misery  of  life 
than  many  another  girl  of  her  age  had  gained 
by  her  limited  personal  experience.  Those  who 
hold  the  theory  that  experience  is  the  only  guide 
are  right  as  a  matter  of  fact,  since  every  soul 
seems  determined  to  try  for  itself  and  not  to  ac 
cept  the  accumulated  wisdom  of  literature  or  of 
experienced  advisers ;  but  those  who  come  safely 
out  of  their  experiences  are  generally  sound  by 
principle  which  has  been  instilled  in  youth.  But 
it  is  useless  to  moralize.  Only  the  event  could 
show  whether  such  an  abnormal  training  as  Ev 
elyn  had  received  was  wise. 

93 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"When  Mrs.  Mavick  went  to  her  daughter's 
apartments  she  found  Evelyn  reading  aloud  and 
Miss  McDonald  at  work  on  an  elaborate  piece  of 
Bulgarian  embroidery. 

"  How  industrious !     What  a  rebuke  to  me  1" 

"  I  don't  see,  mamma,  ho\v  we  could  be  doing 
less ;  I've  only  an  audience  of  one,  and  she  is 
wasting  her  time." 

"  "Well,  carissima,  it  is  settled.  It's  off  for  a 
year." 

"  The  reception  ?    Why  so  ?" 

"  Your  father  cannot  arrange  it.  He  has 
too  much  on  hand  this  season,  and  may  be 
away." 

"  There,  McDonald,  we've  got  a  reprieve,"  and 
Evelyn  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

The  Scotch  woman  smiled,  and  only  said, 
"  Then  I  shall  have  time  to  finish  this." 

Evelyn  jumped  up,  threw  herself  into  her 
mother's  lap,  and  began  to  smooth  her  hair  and 
pet  her.  "  I'm  awfully  glad.  I'd  ever  so  much 
rather  stay  in  than  come  out.  Yes,  dear  little 
mother." 

"Little?" 

"  Yes."  And  the  girl  pulled  her  mother  from 
her  chair,  and  made  her  stand  up  to  measure. 
"  See,  McDonald,  almost  an  inch  taller  than 
mamma,  and  when  I  do  my  hair  on  top !" 

"And  see, mamma" — the  girl  was  pirouetting 
94 


THAT    FORTUNE 

on  the  floor — "  I  can  do  those  steps  you  do. 
Isn't  it  Spanish  ?" 

"  Rather  Spanish- American,  I  guess.  This  is 
the  way." 

Evelyn  clapped  her  hands.  "Isn't  that  love 
ly!" 

"You  are  only  a  little  brownie,  after  all." 
Her  mother  was  holding  her  at  arm's-length  and 
studying  her  critically,  wondering  if  she  would 
ever  be  handsome. 

The  girl  was  slender,  but  not  tall.  Her  figure 
had  her  mother's  grace,  but  not  its  suggestion 
of  yielding  suppleness.  She  was  an  undoubt 
ed  brunette— complexion  olive,  hair  very  dark, 
almost  black  except  in  the  sunlight,  and  low 
on  her  forehead— chin  a  little  strong,  and  nose 
piquant  to  say  the  least  of  it.  Certainly  feat 
ures  not  regular  nor  classic.  The  mouth,  larger 
than  her  mother's,  had  full  lips,  the  upper  one 
short,  and  admirable  curves,  strong  in  repose, 
but  fascinating  when  she  smiled.  A  face  not 
handsome,  but  interesting.  And  the  eyes  made 
you  hesitate  to  say  she  was  not  handsome,  for 
they  were  large,  of  a  dark  hazel  and  change 
able,  eyes  that  flashed  wTith  merriment,  or  fell 
into  sadness  under  the  long  eyelashes ;  and  it 
would  not  be  safe  to  say  that  they  could  not 
blaze  with  indignation.  Not  a  face  to  go  wild 
about,  but  when  you  felt  her  character  through 

95 


THAT    FORTUNE 

it,  a  face  very  winning   in   its  dark  virgin  pu 
rity. 

"  I  do  wonder  where  she  came  from  ?"  Mrs. 
Mavick  was  saying  to  herself,  as  she  threw  her 
self  upon  a  couch  in  her  own  room  and  took  up 
the  latest  Spanish  novel. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CELIA  HOWARD  had  been,  in  a  way,  Philip's 
inspiration  ever  since  the  days  when  they  quar 
relled  and  made  up  on  the  banks  of  the  Deer- 
field.  And  a  fortunate  thing  for  him  it  was 
that  in  his  callow  years  there  was  a  woman  in 
whom  he  could  confide.  Her  sympathy  was 
everything,  even  if  her  advice  was  not  always 
followed.  In  the  years  of  student  life  and  prep 
aration  they  had  not  often  met,  but  they  were 
constant  and  painstaking  correspondents.  It 
was  to  her  that  he  gave  the  running  chronicle 
of  his  life,  and  poured  out  his  heart  and  aspira 
tions.  Unconsciously  he  was  going  to  school  to 
a  woman,  perhaps  the  most  important  part  of  his 
education.  For,  though  in  this  way  he  might 
never  hope  to  understand  woman,  he  was  getting 
most  valuable  knowledge  of  himself. 

As  a  guide,  Philip  was  not  long  in  discovering 
that  Celia  was  somewhat  uncertain.  She  kept 
before  him  a  very  high  ideal ;  she  expected  him 
to  be  distinguished  and  successful,  but  her  means 
varied  from  time  to  time.  Now  she  would  have 
G  97 


THAT    FORTUNE 

him  take  one  path  and  now  another.  And 
Philip  learned  to  read  in  this  varying  advice  the 
changes  in  her  own  experience.  There  was  a 
time  when  she  hoped  he  would  be  a  great  schol 
ar  :  there  was  no  position  so  noble  as  that  of 
a  university  professor  or  president.  Then  she 
turned  short  round  and  extolled  the  business 
life :  get  money,  get  a  position,  and  then  you 
can  study,  write  books,  do  anything  you  like  and 
be  independent.  Then  came  a  time — this  was 
her  last  year  in  college  —  when  science  seemed 
the  only  thing.  That  was  really  a  benefit  to 
mankind :  create  something,  push  discovery,  dis 
pel  ignorance. 

"  Why,  Phil,  if  you  could  get  people  to  under 
stand  about  ventilation,  the  necessity  of  pure 
air,  you  would  deserve  a  monument.  And,  be 
sides — this  is  an  appeal  to  your  lower  nature — 
science  is  now  the  thing  that  pays."  Theology 
she  never  considered  ;  that  was  just  now  too  un 
certain  in  its  direction.  Law  she  had  finally  ap 
proved  ;  it  was  still  respectable ;  it  was  a  very 
good  waiting  -  ground  for  many  opportunities, 
and  it  did  not  absolutely  bar  him  from  litera 
ture,  for  which  she  perceived  he  had  a  sneaking 
fondness. 

Philip  wondered  if  Celia  was  not  thinking  of 
the  law  for  herself.  She  had  tried  teaching,  she 
had  devoted  herself  for  a  time  to  work  in  a  Col- 
98 


THAT    FORTUNE 

leg-e  Settlement,  she  had  learned  stenography,  she 
had  talked  of  learning  telegraphy,  she  had  been 
interested  in  women's  clubs,  in  a  civic  club,  in 
the  political  education  of  women,  and  was  now 
a  professor  of  economics  in  a  girl's  college. 

It  finally  dawned  upon  Philip,  who  was  plod 
ding  along,  man  fashion,  in  one  of  the  old  ruts, 
feeling  his  way,  like  a  true  American,  into  the 
career  that  best  suited  him,  that  Celia  might  be 
a  type  of  the  awakened  American  woman,  who 
does  not  know  exactly  what  she  wants.  To  be 
sure,  she  wants  everything.  She  has  recently 
come  into  an  open  place,  and  she  is  distracted 
by  the  many  opportunities.  She  has  no  sooner 
taken  up  one  than  she  sees  another  that  seems 
better,  or  more  important  in  the  development  of 
her  sex,  and  she  flies  to  that.  But  nothing,  long, 
seems  the  best  thing.  Perhaps  men  are  in  the 
way,  monopolizing  all  the  best  things.  Celia  had 
never  made  a  suggestion  of  this  kind,  but  Philip 
thought  she  was  typical  of  the  women  who  push 
individualism  so  far  as  never  to  take  a  dual  view 
of  life. 

"  I  have  just  been,"  Celia  wrote  in  one  of  her 
letters,  when  she  was  an  active  club  woman, 
"out  "West  to  a  convention  of  the  Federation  of 
Women's  Clubs.  Such  a  striking  collection  of 
noble,  independent  women !  Handsome,  lots  of 
them,  and  dressed — oh,  my  friend,  dress  is  still  a 
99 


THAT    FORTUNE 

part  of  it !  So  different  from  a  man's  convention ! 
Cranks?  Yes,  a  few  left  over.  It  was  a  fine, 
inspiring  meeting.  But,  honestly,  I  could  not 
exactly  make  out  what  they  were  federating 
about,  and  what  they  were  going  to  do  when 
they  got  federated.  It  sort  of  came  over  me,  I 
am  such  a  weak  sister,  that  there  is  such  a  lot  of 
work  done  in  this  world  with  no  object  except 
the  doing  of  it." 

A  more  recent  letter : — "  Do  you  remember 
Aunt  Hepsy,  who  used  to  keep  the  little  thread- 
and-needle  and  candy  shop  in  Kivervale  ?  Such 
a  dear,  sweet,  contented  old  soul!  Always  a 
smile  and  a  good  word  for  every  customer.  I 
can  see  her  now,  picking  out  the  biggest  piece  of 
candy  in  the  dish  that  she  could  afford  to  give 
for  a  little  fellow's  cent.  It  never  came  over  me 
until  lately  how  much  good  that  old  woman  did 
in  the  world.  I  remember  what  a  comfort  it 
was  to  go  and  talk  with  her.  Well,  I  am  getting 
into  a  frame  of  mind  to  want  to  be  an  Aunt 
Hepsy.  There  is  so  much  sawdust  in  every 
thing.  No,  I'm  not  low-spirited.  I'm  just  philo 
sophical.  I've  a  mind  to  write  a  life  of  Aunt 
Hepsy,  and  let  the  world  see  what  a  real  useful 
life  is." 

And  here  is  a  passage  from  the  latest :  — 
"  What  an  interesting  story  your  friend — I  hope 
he  isn't  your  friend,  for  I  don't  half  like  him — 
100 


THAT    FORTUNE 

has  made  out  of  that  Mavick/  girl !  If  I  \yere 
the  girl's  mother  I  should  want  to.  roast  Ii<m 
over  the  coals.  Is  there  any  truth  in  it?  Of 
course  I  read  it,  as  everybody  did,  and  read  the 
crawl  out,  and  looked  for  more.  So  it  is  partly 
our  fault,  but  what  a  shame  it  is,  the  invasion  of 
family  life !  Do  tell  me,  if  you  happen  to  see 
her — the  girl — driving  in  the  Park  or  anywhere 
— of  course  you  never  will — what  she  looks  like. 
I  should  like  to  see  an  unsophisticated  million 
aire-ess  !  But  it  is  an  awfully  interesting  prob 
lem,  invented  or  not.  I'm  pretty  deep  in  psy 
chology  these  days,  and  I'd  give  anything  to 
come  in  contact  with  that  girl.  You  would  just 
see  a  woman,  and  you  wouldn't  know.  I'd  see 
a  soul.  Dear  me,  if  I'd  only  had  the  chance  of 
that  Scotch  woman  !  Don't  you  see,  if  we  could 
ouly  get  to  really  know  one  mind  and  soul,  we 
should  know  it  all.  I  mean  scientifically.  I  know 
what  you  are  thinking,  that  all  women  have  that 
chance.  What  you  think  is  impertinent — to  the 
subject." 

Indeed,  the  story  of  Evelyn  interested  every 
body.  It  was  taken  up  seriously  in  the  country 
regions.  It  absorbed  New  York  gossip  for  two 
days,  and  then  another  topic  took  possession  of 
the  mercurial  city ;  but  it  was  the  sort  of  event 
to  take  possession  of  the  country  mind.  New 
York  millionaires  get  more  than  their  share  of 
101 


THAT    FORTUNE 

attention  in  the  country  press  at  all  times,  but 
this  romance' became  the  subject  of  household 
talk  and  church  and  sewing-circle  gossip,  and  all 
the  women  were  eager  for  more  details,  and 
speculated  endlessly  about  the  possible  character 
and  career  of  the  girl. 

Alice  wrote  Philip  from  Kivervale  that  her 
aunt  Patience  was  very  much  excited  by  it. 
" i  The  poor  thing,'  she  said,  '  always  to  have 
somebody  poking  round,  seeing  every  blessed 
thing  you  do  or  don't  do;  it  would  drive  me 
crazy.  There  is  that  comfort  in  not  having  any 
thing  much — you  have  yourself.  You  tell  Philip 
that  I  hope  he  doesn't  go  there  often.  I've  no 
objection  to  his  being  kind  to  the  poor  thing 
when  they  meet,  and  doing  neighborly  things, 
but  I  do  hope  he  won't  get  mixed  up  with  that 
set.'  It  is  very  amusing,"  Alice  continued,  "  to 
hear  Patience  soliloquize  about  it  and  construct 
the  whole  drama.  But  you  cannot  say,  Philip, 
that  you  are  not  warned  (!)  and  you  know  that 
Patience  is  almost  a  prophet  in  the  way  she  has 
of  putting  things  together.  Celia  was  here  re 
cently  looking  after  the  little  house  that  has  been 
rented  ever  since  the  death  of  her  mother.  I 
never  saw  her  look  so  well  and  handsome,  and 
yet  there  was  a  sort  of  air  about  her  as  if  she 
had  been  in  public  a  good  deal  and  was  quite 
capable  of  taking  care  of  herself.  But  she  was 
102 


THAT    FORTUNE 

that  way  when  she  was  little.  I  think  she  is  a 
good  friend  of  yours.  Well,  Phil,  if  you  do 
ever  happen  to  see  that  Evelyn  in  the  opera,  or 
anywhere,  tell  me  how  she  looks  and  what  she 
has  on — if  you  can." 

The  story  had  not  specially  interested  Philip, 
except  as  it  was  connected  with  Brad's  newspa 
per  prospects,  but  letters,  like  those  referred  to, 
received  from  time  to  time,  began  to  arouse  a 
personal  interest.  Of  course  merely  a  psycholog 
ical  interest,  though  the  talk  here  and  there  at 
dinner-tables  stimulated  his  desire,  at  least,  to  see 
the  subject  of  them.  But  in  this  respect  he  was 
to  be  gratified,  in  the  usual  way  things  desired 
happen  in  life — that  is,  by  taking  pains  to  bring 
them  about. 

When  Mr.  Brad  came  back  from  his  vacation 
his  manner  had  somewhat  changed.  He  had  the 
air  of  a  person  who  stands  on  firm  ground.  He 
felt  that  he  was  a  personage.  He  betrayed  this 
in  a  certain  deliberation  of  speech,  as  if  any 
remark  from  him  now  might  be  important.  In 
a  way  he  felt  himself  related  to  public  affairs. 
In  short,  he  had  exchanged  the  curiosity  of 
the  reporter  for  the  omniscience  of  the  edi 
tor.  And  for  a  time  Philip  was  restrained 
from  intruding  the  subject  of  the  Mavick  sensa 
tion.  However,  one  day  after  dinner  he  vent 
ured  : 

103 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  I  see,  Mr.  Brad,  that  your  hit  still  attracts 
attention."  Mr.  Brad  looked  inquiringly  blank. 

"  I  mean  about  the  millionaire  heiress.  It  has 
excited  a  wide  interest." 

"  Ah,  that !  Yes,  it  gave  me  a  chance,"  re 
plied  Brad,  who  was  thinking  only  of  himself. 

"  I've  had  several  letters  about  it  from  the 
country." 

"  Yes  ?  Well,  I  suppose,"  said  Brad,  modestly, 
"  that  a  little  country  notoriety  doesn't  hurt  a 
person." 

Philip  did  not  tell  his  interlocutor  that,  so  far 
as  he  knew,  nobody  in  the  country  had  ever 
heard  the  name  of  Olin  Brad,  or  knew  there  was 
such  a  person  in  existence.  But  he  went  on  : 

"  Certainly.  And,  besides,  there  is  a  great 
curiosity  to  know  about  the  girl.  Did  you  ever 
see  her?" 

"  Only  in  public.  I  don't  know  Mavick  person 
ally,  and  for  reasons,"  and  Mr.  Brad  laughed  in  a 
superior  manner.  "  It's  easy  enough  to  see  her." 

"  How  2" 

"  Watch  out  for  a  Wagner  night,  and  go  to 
the  opera.  You'll  see  where  Mavick's  box  is  in 
the  bill.  She  is  pretty  sure  to  be  there,  and  her 
mother.  There  is  nothing  special  about  her  ;  but 
her  mother  is  still  a  very  fascinating  woman,  I 
can  tell  you.  You'll  find  her  sure  on  a  '  Carmen' 
night,  but  not  so  sure  of  the  girl." 
104 


THAT    FORTUNE 

On  this  suggestion  Philip  promptly  acted. 
The  extra  expense  of  an  orchestra  seat  he  put 
do\vn  to  his  duty  to  keep  his  family  informed  of 
anything  that  interested  them  in  the  city.  It 
was  a  "  Siegfried  "  night,  and  a  full  house.  To 
describe  it  all  would  be  very  interesting  to  Alice. 
The  Mavick  box  was  empty  until  the  overture 
was  half  through.  Then  appeared  a  gentleman 
who  looked  as  if  he  were  performing  a  public 
duty,  a  lady  who  looked  as  if  she  were  receiving 
a  public  welcome,  and  seated  between  them  a 
dark,  slender  girl,  who  looked  as  if  she  did  not 
see  the  public  at  all,  but  only  the  orchestra.  Be 
hind  them,  in  the  shadow,  a  middle-aged  woman 
in  plainer  attire.  It  must  be  the  Scotch  govern 
ess.  Mrs.  Mavick  had  her  eyes  everywhere 
about  the  house,  and  was  graciously  bowing  to 
her  friends.  Mr.  Mavick  coolly  and  unsympa- 
thetically  regarded  the  house,  quite  conscious  of 
it,  but  as  if  he  were  a  little  bored.  You  could  not 
see  him  without  being  aware  that  he  was  think 
ing  of  other  things,  probably  of  far-reaching 
schemes.  People  always  used  to  say  of  Mavick, 
when  he  was  young  and  a  clerk  in  a  Washington 
bureau,  that  he  looked  omniscient.  At  least  the 
imagination  of  spectators  invested  him  with  a 
golden  hue,  and  regarded  him  through  the  rose 
ate  atmosphere  that  surrounds  a  many-millioned 
man.  The  girl  had  her  eyes  always  on  the  or- 

105 


THAT    FORTUNE 

chestra,  and  was  waiting  for  the  opening  of  the 
world  that  lay  behind  the  drop  curtain.  Philip 
noticed  that  all  the  evening  Mrs.  Mavick  paid 
very  little  attention  to  the  stage,  except  when 
the  rest  of  the  house  was  so  dark  that  she  could 
distinguish  little  in  it. 

Fortunately  for  Philip,  in  his  character  of 
country  reporter,  the  Mavick  box  was  near  the 
stage,  and  he  could  very  well  see  what  was  going 
on  in  it,  without  wholly  distracting  his  attention 
from  Wagner's  sometimes  very  dimly  illuminated 
creation. 

There  are  faces  and  figures  that  compel  uni 
versal  attention  and  admiration.  Commonly 
there  is  one  woman  in  a  theatre  at  whom  all 
glances  are  levelled.  It  is  a  mystery  why  one 
face  makes  only  an  individual  appeal,  and  an  ap 
peal  much  stronger  than  that  of  one  universally 
admired.  The  house  certainly  concerned  itself 
very  little  about  the  shy  and  dark  heiress  in  the 
Mavick  box,  having  with  regard  to  her  only  a 
moment's  curiosity.  But  the  face  instantly  took 
hold  of  Philip.  He  found  it  more  interesting  to 
read  the  play  in  her  face  than  on  the  stage.  He 
seemed  instantly  to  have  established  a  chain  of 
personal  sympathy  with  her.  So  intense  was  his 
regard  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  must,  if  there  is 
anything  in  the  telepathic  theory  of  the  inter 
change  of  feeling,  have  been  conscious  of  it. 

106 


THAT    FORTUNE 

That  she  was,  however,  unconscious  of  any  in 
fluence  reaching  her  except  from  the  stage  was 
perfectly  evident.  She  was  absorbed  in  the 
drama,  even  when  the  drama  was  almost  lost  in 
darkness,  and  only  an  occasional  grunting  ejacu 
lation  gave  evidence  that  there  was  at  least  ani 
mal  life  responsive  to  the  continual  pleading, 
suggesting,  inspiring  strains  of  the  orchestra.  In 
the  semi-gloom  and  groping  of  the  under-world, 
it  would  seem  that  the  girl  felt  that  mystery  of 
life  which  the  instruments  were  trying  to  inter 
pret. 

At  any  rate,  Philip  could  see  that  she  was  rapt 
away  into  that  other  world  of  the  past,  to  a  prac 
tical  unconsciousness  of  her  immediate  surround 
ings.  Was  it  the  music  or  the  poetic  idea  that 
held  her?  Perhaps  only  the  latter,  for  it  is 
Wagner's  gift  to  reach  by  his  creations  those  who 
have  little  technical  knowledge  of  music.  At 
any  rate,  she  was  absorbed,  and  so  perfectly  was 
the  progress  of  the  drama  repeated  in  her  face 
that  Philip,  always  with  the  help  of  the  orches 
tra,  could  trace  it  there. 

But  presently  something  more  was  evident  to 
this  sympathetic  student  of  her  face.  She  was 
not  merely  discovering  the  poet's  world,  she 
was  finding  out  herself.  As  the  drama  unfolded, 
Philip  was  more  interested  in  this  phase  than 
in  the  observation  of  her  enjoyment  and  appreci- 
107 


THAT    FORTUNE 

ation.  To  see  her  eyes  sparkle  and  her  cheeks 
glow  with  enthusiasm  during  the  sword -song 
was  one  thing,  but  it  was  quite  another  when 
Siegfried  began  his  idyl,  that  nature  and  bird 
song  of  the  awakening  of  the  whole  being  to 
the  passion  of  love.  Then  it  was  that  Evelyn's 
face  had  a  look  of  surprise,  of  pain,  of  profound 
disturbance ;  it  was  suffused  with  blushes,  coming 
and  going  in  passionate  emotion ;  the  eyes  no 
longer  blazed,  but  were  softened  in  a  melting 
tenderness  of  sympathy,  and  her  whole  person 
seemed  to  be  carried  into  the  stream  of  the 
great  life  passion.  When  it  ceased  she  sank 
back  in  her  seat,  and  blushed  still  more,  as  if 
in  fear  that  some  one  had  discovered  her  secret. 

Afterwards,  when  Philip  *had  an  opportunity 
of  knowing  Evelyn  Mavick,  and  knowing  her 
very  well,  and  to  some  extent  having  her  con 
fidence,  he  used  to  say  to  himself  that  he  had 
little  to  learn — the  soul  of  the  woman  was  per 
fectly  revealed  to  him  that  night  of  "  Siegfried." 

As  the  curtain  went  down,  Mrs.  Mavick,  whose 
attention  had  not  been  specially  given  to  the 
artists  before,  was  clapping  her  hands  in  a  great 
state  of  excitement. 

"  Why  don't  you  applaud,  child  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother,"  was  all  the  girl  could  say,  with 
heaving  breast  and  downcast  eyes. 


CHAPTER  X 

ALL  winter  long  that  face  seemed  to  get  be 
tween  Philip  and  his  work.  It  was  an  inspira 
tion  to  his  pen  when  it  ran  in  the  way  of  liter 
ature,  but  a  distinct  damage  to  progress  in  his 
profession.  He  had  seen  Evelyn  again,  more 
than  once,  at  the  opera,  and  twice  been  excited 
by  a  passing  glimpse  of  her  on  a  crisp,  sunny 
afternoon  in  the  Mavick  carriage  in  the  Park- 
always  the  same  bright,  eager  face.  So  vividly  per 
sonal  was  the  influence  upon  him  that  it  seemed 
impossible  that  she  should  not  be  aware  of  it — 
impossible  that  she  could  not  know  there  was 
such  a  person  in  the  world  as  Philip  Burnett. 

Fortunately  youth  can  create  its  own  world. 
Between  the  secluded  daughter  of  millions  and 
the  law  clerk  was  a  great  gulf,  but  this  did  not 
prevent  Evelyn's  face,  and,  in  moments  of  vanity, 
Evelyn  herself,  from  belonging  to  Philip's  world. 
He  would  have  denied — we  have  a  habit  of  lying 
to  ourselves  quite  as  much  as  to  others — that  he 
ever  dreamed  of  possessing  her,  but  nevertheless 
she  entered  into  his  thoughts  and  his  future  in  a 
109 


THAT    FORTUNE 

very  curious  way.  If  he  saw  himself  a  successful 
lawyer,  her  image  appeared  beside  him.  If  his 
story  should  gain  the  public  attention,  and  his 
occasional  essays  come  to  be  talked  of,  it  was 
Evelyn's  interest  and  approval  that  he  caught 
himself  thinking  about.  And  he  had  a  convic 
tion  that  she  was  one  to  be  much  more  inter 
ested  in  him  as  a  man  of  letters  than  as  a  lawyer. 
This  might  be  true.  In  Philip's  story,  which  was 
very  slowly  maturing,  the  heroine  fell  in  love 
with  a  young  man  simply  for  himself,  and  re 
gardless  of  the  fact  that  he  was  poor  and  had  his 
career  to  make.  But  he  knew  that  if  his  novel 
ever  got  published  the  critics  would  call  it  a  ro 
mance,  and  not  a  transcript  of  real  life.  Had  not 
women  ceased  to  be  romantic  and  ceased  to  in 
dulge  in  vagaries  of  affection  ? 

Was  it  that  Philip  was  too  irresolute  to  cut 
either  law  or  literature,  and  go  in,  single-minded, 
for  a  fortune  of  some  kind,  and  a  place  ?  Or  was 
it  merely  that  he  had  confidence  in  the  winning 
character  of  his  own  qualities  and  was  biding  his 
time?  If  it  was  a  question  of  making  himself 
acceptable  to  a  woman — say  a  woman  like  Evelyn 
— was  it  not  belittling  to  his  own  nature  to  plan 
to  win  her  by  what  he  could  make  rather  than 
by  what  he  was? 

Probably  the  vision  he  had  of  Evelyn  counted 
for  very  little  in  his  halting  decision.  "Why 
110 


THAT    FORTUNE 

don't  you  put  her  into  a  novel  ?"  asked  Mr.  Brad 
one  evening.  The  suggestion  was  a  shock.  Philip 
conveyed  the  idea  pretty  plainly  that  he  hadn't 
got  so  low  as  that  yet.  "  Ah,  you  fellows  think 
you  must  make  your  own  material.  You  are 
higher -toned  than  old  Dante."  The  fact  was 
that  Philip  was  not  really  halting.  Every  day 
he  was  less  and  less  in  love  with  the  law  as  it 
was  practised,  and,  courting  reputation,  he  would 
much  rather  be  a  great  author  than  a  great  law 
yer.  But  he  kept  such  thoughts  to  himself.  He 
had  inherited  a  very  good  stock  of  common-sense. 
Apparently  he  devoted  himself  to  his  office  work, 
and  about  the  occupation  of  his  leisure  hours  no 
one  was  in  his  confidence  except  Celia,  and  now 
and  then,  when  he  got  something  into  print,  Alice. 
Professedly  Celia  was  his  critic,  but  really  she 
was  the  necessary  appreciator,  for  probably  most 
writers  would  come  to  a  stand-still  if  there  was 
no  sympathetic  soul  to  whom  they  could  com 
municate,  while  they  were  fresh,  the  teeming 
fancies  of  their  brains. 

The  winter  wore  along  without  any  incident 
worth  recording,  but  still  fruitful  for  the  future, 
as  Philip  fondly  hoped.  And  one  day  chance 
threw  in  his  way  another  sensation.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  of  a  spring  day  he  was  sent  from  the 
office  to  Mavick's  house  with  a  bundle  of  papers 
to  be  examined  and  signed. 
Ill 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"You  will  be  pretty  sure  to  find  him,"  said 
Mr.  Sharp,  "at  home  about  six.  Wait  till  you 
do  see  him.  The  papers  must  be  signed  and  go 
to  Washington  by  the  night  mail." 

Mr.  Mavick  was  in  his  study,  and  received 
Philip  very  civilly,  as  the  messenger  of  his  law 
yers,  and  was  soon  busy  in  examining  the  docu 
ments,  flinging  now  and  then  a  short  question  to 
Philip,  who  sat  at  the  table  near  him. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and,  not 
waiting  for  a  summons,  a  young  girl  entered,  and 
stopped  after  a  couple  of  steps. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know—" 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  said  Mr.  Mavick,  looking 
up  a  moment,  and  then  down  at  the  papers. 

"  Why,  about  the  coachman's  baby.  I  thought 
perhaps — "  She  had  a  paper  in  her  hand,  and 
advanced  towards  the  table,  and  then  stopped, 
seeing  that  her  father  was  not  alone. 

Philip  rose  involuntarily.  Mr.  Mavick  looked 
up  quickly.  "  Yes,  presently.  I've  just  now  got 
a  little  business  with  Mr.  Burnett." 

It  was  not  an  introduction.  But  for  an  instant 
the  eyes  of  the  young  people  met.  It  seemed  to 
Philip  that  it  was  a  recognition.  Certainly  the 
full,  sweet  eyes  were  bent  on  him  for  the  second 
she  stood  there,  before  turning  away  and  leaving 
the  room.  And  she  looked  just  as  true  and  sweet 
as  Philip  dreamed  she  would  look  at  home.  He 
112 


THAT    FORTUNE 

sat  in  a  kind  of  maze  for  the  quarter  of  an  hour 
while  Mavick  was  affixing  his  signature  and  giv 
ing  some  directions.  He  heard  all  the  directions, 
and  he  carried  away  the  papers,  but  he  also  car 
ried  away  something  else  unknown  to  the  broker. 
After  all,  he  found  himself  reflecting,  as  he  walked 
down  the  avenue,  the  practice  of  the  law  has  its 
good  moments ! 

"What  was  there  in  this  trivial  incident  that 
so  magnified  it  in  Philip's  mind,  day  after  day? 
Was  it  that  he  began  to  feel  that  he  had  estab 
lished  a  personal  relation  with  Evelyn  because 
she  had  seen  him  ?  Nothing  had  really  happened. 
Perhaps  she  had  not  heard  his  name,  perhaps  she 
did  not  carry  the  faintest  image  of  him  out  of 
the  room  with  her.  Philip  had  read  in  romances 
of  love  at  first  sight,  and  he  had  personal  expe 
rience  of  it.  Commonly,  in  romances,  the  woman 
gives  no  sign  of  it,  does  not  admit  it  to  herself, 
denies  it  in  her  words  and  in  her  conduct,  and 
never  owns  it  until  the  final  surrender.  "  When 
was  the  first  moment  you  began  to  love  me, 
dear?"  "Why,  the  first  moment,  that  day; 
didn't  you  know  it  then  ?"  This  we  are  led  to 
believe  is  common  experience  with  the  shy  and 
secretive  sex.  It  is  enough,  in  a  thousand  reported 
cases,  that  he  passed  her  window  on  horseback, 
and  happened  to  look  her  way.  But  with  such  a 
look !  The  mischief  was  done.  But  this  foun- 

H  113 


THAT    FORTUNE 

dation  was  too  slight  for  Philip  to  build  such  a 
hope  on. 

Looking  back,  we  like  to  trace  great  results  to 
insignificant,  momentary  incidents — a  glance,  a 
word,  that  turned  the  current  of  a  life.  There 
was  a  definite  moment  when  the  thought  came 
to  Alexander  that  he  Avould  conquer  the  world  ! 
Probably  there  was  no  such  moment.  The  great 
Alexander  was  restless,  and  at  no  initial  instant 
did  he  conceive  his  scheme  of  conquest.  Nor 
was  it  one  event  that  set  him  in  motion.  We 
confound  events  with  causes.  It  happened  on 
such  a  day.  Yes,  but  it  might  have  happened 
on  another.  But  if  Philip  had  not  been  sent  on 
that  errand  to  Mavick  probably  Evelyn  would 
never  have  met  him.  What  nonsense  this  is, 
and  what  an  unheroic  character  it  makes  Philip ! 
Is  it  supposable  that,  with  such  a  romance  as 
he  had  developed  about  the  girl,  he  would  not 
sometime  have  come  near  her,  even  if  she  had 
been  locked  up  with  all  the  bars  and  bolts  of  a 
safety  deposit  ? 

The  incident  of  this  momentary  meeting  was, 
however,  of  great  consequence.  There  is  no  such 
feeder  of  love  as  the  imagination.  And  fortunate 
it  was  for  Philip  that  his  romance  was  left  to 
grow  in  the  wonder-working  process  of  his  own 
mind.  At  first  there  had  been  merely  a  curiosity 
in  regard  to  a  person  whose  history  and  educa- 
114 


THAT    FORTUNE 

tion  had  been  peculiar.  Then  the  sight  of  her 
had  raised  a  strange  tumult  in  his  breast,  and 
his  fancy  began  to  play  about  her  image,  seen 
only  at  a  distance  and  not  many  times,  until  his 
imagination  built  up  a  being  of  surpassing  love 
liness,  and  endowed  with  all  the  attractions  that 
the  poets  in  all  ages  have  given  to  the  sex  that 
inspires  them.  But  this  sort  of  creation  in  the 
mind  becomes  vague,  and  related  to  literature 
only,  unless  it  is  sustained  by  some  reality.  Even 
Petrarch  must  occasionally  see  Laura  at  the 
church  door,  and  dwell  upon  the  veiled  dreamer 
that  passed  and  perhaps  paused  a  moment  to  re 
gard  him  with  sad  eyes.  Philip,  no  doubt,  nursed 
a  genuine  passion,  which  grew  into  an  exquisite 
ideal  in  the  brooding  of  a  poetic  mind,  but  it 
might  in  time  have  evaporated  into  thin  air,  re 
maining  only  as  an  emotional  and  educational 
experience.  But  this  moment  in  Mr.  Mavick's 
library  had  given  a  solid  body  to  his  imagina 
tions,  and  a  more  definite  turn  to  his  thought 
of  her. 

If,  in  some  ordinary  social  chance,  Philip  had 
encountered  the  heiress,  without  this  previous 
wonder-working  of  his  imagination  in  regard  to 
her,  the  probability  is  that  he  would  have  seen 
nothing  especially  to  distinguish  her  from  the 
other  girls  of  her  age  and  newness  in  social  ex 
perience.  Certainly  the  thought  that  she  was 
115 


THAT    FORTUNE 

the  possessor  of  uncounted  millions  would  have 
been,  on  his  side,  an  insuperable  barrier  to  any 
advance.  But  the  imagination  works  wonders 
truly,  and  Philip  saw  the  woman  and  not  the 
heiress.  She  had  become  now  a  distinct  person 
ality,  to  be  desired  above  all  things  on  earth,  and 
that  he  should  see  her  again  he  had  no  doubt. 

This  thought  filled  his  mind,  and  even  when 
he  was  not  conscious  of  it  gave  a  sort  of  color  to 
life,  refined  his  perceptions,  and  gave  him  al 
most  sensuous  delight  in  the  masterpieces  of 
poetry  which  had  formerly  appealed  only  to  his 
intellectual  appreciation  of  beauty.  He  had  not 
yet  come  to  a  desire  to  share  his  secret  with  any 
confidant,  but  preferred  to  be  much  alone  and 
muse  on  it,  creating  a  world  which  was  without 
evil,  without  doubt,  undisturbed  by  criticism. 
In  this  so  real  dream  it  was  the  daily  office  work 
that  seemed  unreal,  and  the  company  and  gossip 
of  his  club  a  kind  of  vain  show.  He  began  to 
frequent  the  picture  -  galleries,  where  there  was 
at  least  an  attempt  to  express  sentiment,  and  to 
take  long  walks  to  the  confines  of  the  city — con 
fines  fringed  with  all  the  tender  suggestions  of 
the  opening  spring.  Even  the  monotonous  streets 
which  he  walked  were  illumined  in  his  eyes,  glo 
rified  by  the  fulness  of  life  and  achievement. 
"  Yes,"  he  said  again  and  again,  as  he  stood  on 
the  Heights,  in  view  of  the  river,  the  green  wall 

116 


THAT    FORTUNE 

of  Jersey  and  the  great  metropolis  spread  away 
to  the -ocean  gate,  "  it  is  a  beautiful  city !  And 
the  critics  say  it  is  commonplace  and  vulgar." 
Dear  dreamer,  it  is  a  beautiful  city,  and  for  one 
reason  and  another  a  million  of  people  who  have 
homes  there  think  so.  But  take  out  of  it  one 
person,  and  it  would  have  for  you  no  more  in 
terest  than  any  other  huge  assembly  of  ugly 
houses.  How,  in  a  lover's  eyes,  the  woman  can 
transfigure  a  city,  a  landscape,  a  country  ! 

Celia  had  come  up  to  town  for  the  spring  ex 
hibitions,  and  was  lodging  at  the  Woman's  Club. 
Naturally  Philip  saw  much  of  her,  indeed  gave 
her  all  his  time  that  the  office  did  not  demand. 
Her  company  was  always  for  him  a  keen  delight, 
an  excitement,  and  in  its  way  a  rest.  For  though 
she  always  criticised,  she  did  not  nag,  and  just 
because  she  made  no  demands,  nor  laid  any 
claims  on  him,  nor  ever  reproached  him  for  want 
of  devotion,  her  society  was  delightful  and  never 
dull.  They  dined  together  at  the  Woman's  Club, 
they  experimented  on  the  theatres,  they  visited 
the  galleries  and  the  picture-shops,  they  took  lit 
tle  excursions  into  the  suburbs  and  came  back 
impressed  with  the  general  cheapness  and  shab- 
biness,  and  they  talked — talked  about  all  they 
saw,  all  they  had  read,  and  something  of  what 
they  thought.  What  was  wanting  to  make  this 
charming  camaraderie  perfect  ?  Only  one  thing. 
117 


THAT    FORTUNE 

It  may  have  occurred  to  Philip  that  Celia  had 
not  sufficient  respect  for  his  opinions;  she  re 
garded  them  simply  as  opinions,  not  as  his. 

One  afternoon,  in  the  Metropolitan  Picture- 
Gallery,  Philip  had  been  expressing  enthusiasm 
for  some  paintings  that  Celia  thought  more  sen 
timental  than  artistic,  and  this  reminded  her  that 
he  was  getting  into  a  general  way  of  admiring 
everything. 

"  You  didn't  use,  Philip,  to  care  so  much  for 
pictures." 

"  Oh,  I've  been  seeing  more." 

"  But  you  don't  say  you  like  that  ?  Look  at 
the  drawing." 

"Well,  it  tells  the  story." 

"  A  story  is  nothing ;  it's  the  way  it's  told. 
This  is  not  well  told." 

"  It  pleases  me.     Look  at  that  girl." 

"Yes,  she  is  domestic.  I  admit  that.  But 
I'm  not  sure  I  do  not  prefer  an  impressionistic 
girl,  whom  you  can't  half  see,  to  such  a  thorough 
bread-and-butter  miss  as  this." 

"  Which  would  you  rather  live  with  ?" 

"  I'm  not  obliged  to  live  with  either.  In  fact, 
I'd  rather  live  with  myself.  If  it's  art,  I  want 
art ;  if  it's  cooking  and  sewing,  I  want  cooking 
and  sewing.  If  the  artist  knew  enough,  he'd 
paint  a  woman  instead  of  a  cook." 

"  Then  you  don't  care  for  real  life  3" 
118 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Keal  life !  There  is  no  such  thing.  You  are 
demonstrating  that.  You  transform  this  unin 
teresting  piece  of  domesticity  into  an  ideal  wom 
an,  ennobling  her  surroundings.  She  doesn't  do 
it.  She  is  level  with  them." 

"It  would  be  a  dreary  world  if  we  didn't 
idealize  things." 

"  So  it  would.  And  that  is  what  I  complain 
of  in  such  '  art '  as  this.  I  don't  know  what  has 
got  into  you,  Phil.  I  never  saw  you  so  exu 
berant.  You  are  pleased  with  everything.  Have 
you  had  a  rise  in  the  office?  Have  you  finished 
your  novel?" 

"  Neither.  ISTo  rise.  No  novel.  But  Tweedle 
is  getting  friendly.  Threw  an  extra  job  in  my 
way  the  other  day.  Do  you  think  I'd  better 
offer  my  novel,  when  it  is  done,  to  Tweedle?" 

"  Tweedle,  indeed !" 

"  "Well,  one  of  our  clients  is  one  of  the  great 
publishing  firms,  and  Tweedle  often  dines  with 
the  publisher." 

"For  shame,  Phil!" 

Philip  laughed.  "  At  any  rate,  that  is  no 
meaner  than  a  suggestion  of  Brad's.  He  says  if 
I  will  just  weave  into  it  a  lot  of  line  scenery,  and 
set  my  people  travelling  on  the  great  trunk,  stop 
ping  off  now  and  then  at  an  attractive  branch, 
the  interested  railroads  would  gladly  print  it  and 
scatter  it  all  over  the  country." 
119 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"No  doubt,"  said  Celia,  sinking  down  upon  a 
convenient  seat.  "I  begin  to  feel  as  if  there 
were  no  protection  for  anything.  And,  Phil, 
that  great  monster  of  a  Mavick,  who  is  eating  up 
the  country,  isn't  he  a  client  also  ?" 

"  Occasionally  only.  A  man  like  Mavick  has 
his  own  law}^ers  and  judges." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  ?" 

"  Just  glimpses." 

"  And  that  daughter  of  his,  about  whom  such 
a  fuss  was  made,  I  suppose  you  never  met  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  as  I  wrote  you,  at  the  opera ;  saw  her  in 
her  box." 

"And—?" 

"  Oh,  she's  rather  a  little  thing  ;  rather  dark, 
I  told  you  that ;  seems  devoted  to  music." 

"  And  you  didn't  tell  what  she  wore." 

"  Why,  what  they  all  wear.  Something  light 
and  rather  fluffy." 

"  Just  like  a  man.     Is  she  pretty  ?" 

"Ye-e-s;  has  that  effect.  You'd  notice  her 
eyes."  If  Philip  had  been  frank  he  would  have 
answered,  "  I  don't  know.  She's  simply  ador 
able,"  and  Celia  would  have  understood  all 
about  it. 

"  And  probably  doesn't  know  anything.  Yes, 
highly  educated  ?  I  heard  that.  But  I'm  get 
ting  tired  of  'highly  educated' ;  I  see  so  many  of 
them.  I've  been  making  them  now  for  years. 
120 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Perhaps  I'm  one  of  them.  And  where  am  I  ? 
Don't  interrupt.  I  tell  you  it  is  a  relief  to  come 
across  a  sweet,  womanly  ignoramus.  What 
church  does  she  go  to?" 

"  Who  ?" 

"  That  Mavick  girl." 

"St.  Thomas's,  I  believe." 

"That's  good — that's  devotional.  I  suppose 
you  go  there  too,  being  brought  up  a  Congrega- 
tionalist  ?" 

"  At  vespers,  sometimes.  But,  Celia,  what  is 
the  matter  with  you  ?  I  thought  you  didn't  care 
—didn't  care  to  belong  to  anything  ?" 

"  I  ?  I  belong  to  everything.  Didn't  I  write 
you  reams  about  my  studies  in  psychology  ?  I've 
come  to  one  conclusion.  There  are  only  two  per 
sons  in  the  world  who  stand  on  a  solid  founda 
tion,  the  Roman  Catholic  and  the  Agnostic.  The 
Roman  Catholic  knows  everything,  the  Agnostic 
doesn't  know  anything." 

Philip  was  never  certain  when  the  girl  was 
bantering  him ;  nor,  when  she  was  in  earnest, 
how  long  she  would  remain  in  that  mind  and 
mood.  So  he  ventured,  humorously  : 

"  The  truth  is,  Celia,  that  you  know  too  much 
to  be  either.  You  are  what  they  call  emanci 
pated." 

"  Emancipated !"  And  Celia  sat  up  energeti 
cally,  as  if  she  were  now  really  interested  in 
121 


THAT    FORTUNE 

the  conversation.  "  Become  the  slave  of  myself 
instead  of  the  slave  of  somebody  else  !  That's 
the  most  hateful  thing  to  be,  emancipated.  I 
never  knew  a  woman  who  said  she  was  emanci 
pated  who  wasn't  in  some  ridiculous  folly  or  an 
other.  Now,  Phil,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  some 
thing.  I  can  tell  you.  You  know  I've  been 
striving  to  have  a  career,  to  get  out  of  myself 
somehow,  and  have  a  career  for  myself.  Well, 
to-day  —  mind,  I  don't  say  to-morrow" — (and 
there  was  a  queer  little  smile  on  her  lips) — "I 
think  I  will  just  try  to  be  good  to  people  and 
things  in  general,  in  a  human  way." 

"  And  give  up  education  ?" 

"  No,  no.  I  get  my  living  by  education,  just 
as  you  do,  or  hope  to  do,  by  law  or  by  letters ; 
it's  all  the  same.  But  wait.  I  haven't  finished 
what  I  was  going  to  say.  The  more  I  go  into 
psychology,  trying  to  find  out  about  my  mind 
and  mind  generally,  the  more  mysterious  every 
thing  is.  Do  you  know,  Phil,  that  I  am  getting 
into  the  supernatural?  You  can't  help  running 
into  it.  For  me,  I  am  not  side-tracked  by  any 
of  the  nonsense  about  magnetism  and  telepathy 
and  mind-reading  and  other  psychic  impondera 
bilities.  Isn't  it  queer  that  the  further  we  go 
into  science  the  deeper  we  go  into  mystery  ? 
Now,  don't  be  shocked,  I  mean  it  reverently,  just 
as  an  illustration.  Do  you  think  any  one  knows 
122 


THAT    FORTUNE 

really  anything  more  about  the  operation  in  the 
world  of  electricity  than  he  does  about  the  oper 
ation  of  the  Holy  Ghost  ?  And  yet  people  talk 
about  science  as  if  it  were  something  they  had 
made  themselves." 

"  But,  Celia— " 

"  No,  I've  talked  enough.  We  are  in  this  world 
and  not  in  some  other,  and  I  have  to  make  my 
living.  Let's  go  into  the  other  room  and  see  the 
old  masters.  They,  at  least,  knew  how  to  paint 
—to  paint  passion  and  character ;  some  of  them 
could  paint  soul.  And  then,  Phil,  I  shall  be 
hungry.  Talking  about  the  mind  always  makes 
me  hungry." 


CHAPTER  XI 

PHILIP  was  always  welcome  at  his  uncle's  house 
in  Kivervale.  It  was,  of  course,  his  home  during 
his  college  life,  and  since  then  he  was  always  ex 
pected  for  his  yearly  holiday.  The  women  of  the 
house  made  much  of  him,  waited  on  him,  deferred 
to  him,  petted  him,  with  a  flattering  mingling  of 
tenderness  to  a  little  boy  and  the  respect  due  to 
a  man  who  had  gone  into  the  world.  Even  Mr. 
Maitland  condescended  to  a  sort  of  equality  in 
engaging  Philip  in  conversation  about  the  state 
of  the  country  and  the  prospects  of  business  in 
JSTew  York. 

It  was  July.  When  Philip  went  to  sleep  at 
night — he  was  in  the  front  chamber  reserved  for 
guests — the  loud  murmur  of  the  Deerfield  was  in 
his  ears,  like  a  current  bearing  him  away  into 
sweet  sleep  and  dreams  in  a  land  of  pleasant  ad 
ventures.  Only  in  youth  come  such  dreams. 
Later  on  the  sophisticated  mind,  left  to  its  own 
guidance  in  the  night,  wanders  amid  the  com 
plexities  of  life,  calling  up  in  confusion  scenes 
long  forgotten  or  repented  of,  images  only  regis- 
134 


THAT    FORTUNE 

tered  by  a  sub-conscious  process,  dreams  to  per 
plex,  irritate,  and  excite. 

In  the  morning  the  same  continuous  murmur 
seemed  to  awake  him  into  a  peaceful  world. 
Through  the  open  window  came  in  the  scents 
of  summer,  the  freshness  of  a  new  day.  How 
sweet  and  light  was  the  air !  It  was  indeed  the 
height  of  summer.  The  corn,  not  yet  tasselled, 
stood  in  green  flexible  ranks,  moved  by  the  early 
breeze.  In  the  river-meadows  haying  had  just 
begun.  Fields  of  timothy  and  clover,  yellowing 
to  ripeness,  took  on  a  fresh  bloom  from  the  dew, 
and  there  was  an  odor  of  new-mown  grass  from 
the  sections  where  the  scythes  had  been.  He 
heard  the  call  of  the  crow  from  the  hill,  the  mel 
ody  of  the  bobolink  along  the  meadow-brook ; 
indeed,  the  birds  of  all  sorts  were  astir,  skimming 
along  the  ground  or  rising  to  the  sky,  keeping 
watch  especially  over  the  garden  and  the  fruit- 
trees,  carrying  food  to  their  nests,  or  teaching 
their  young  broods  to  fly  and  to  chirp  the  songs 
of  summer.  And  from  the  wood-shed  the  shrill 
note  of  the  scythe  under  the  action  of  the  grind 
stone.  No  such  vivid  realization  of  summer  as 
that. 

Philip  stole  out  the  unused  front  door  without 

disturbing  the  family.    Whither?    Where  would 

a  boy  be  likely  to  go  the  first  thing?    To  the 

barn,  the  great  cavernous  barn,  its  huge  doors 

125 


THAT    FORTUNE 

now  wide  open,  the  stalls  vacant,  the  mows 
empty,  the  sunlight  sifting  in  through  the  high 
shadowy  spaces.  How  much  his  life  had  been 
in  that  barn  !  How  he  had  stifled  and  scrambled 
mowing  hay  in  those  lofts !  On  the  floor  he  had 
hulled  heaps  of  corn,  thrashed  oats  with  a  flail — 
a  noble  occupation — and  many  a  rainy  day  had 
played  there  with  girls  and  boys  who  could  not 
now  exactly  describe  the  games  or  well  recall 
what  exciting  fun  they  were.  There  were  the 
racks  where  he  put  the  fodder  for  cattle  and 
horses,  and  there  was  the  cutting-machine  for 
the  hay  and  straw  and  for  slicing  the  frozen  tur 
nips  on  cold  winter  mornings. 

In  the  barn-yard  were  the  hens,  just  as  usual, 
walking  with  measured  step,  scratching  and  pick 
ing  in  the  muck,  darting  suddenly  to  one  side 
with  an  elevated  wing,  clucking,  chattering,  jab 
bering  endlessly  about  nothing.  They  did  not 
seem  to  mind  him  as  he  stood  in  the  open  door. 
But  the  rooster,  in  his  oriental  iridescent  plu 
mage,  jumped  upon  a  fence-post  and  crowed  de 
fiantly,  in  warning  that  this  was  his  preserve. 
They  seemed  like  the  same  hens,  yet  Philip  knew 
they  were  all  strangers ;  all  the  hens  and  flaunt 
ing  roosters  he  knew  had  long  ago  gone  to 
Thanksgiving.  The  hen  is,  or  should  be,  an 
annual.  It  is  never  made  a  pet.  It  forms  no 
attachments.  Man  is  no  better  acquainted  with 
126 


THAT    FORTUNE 

the  hen,  as  a  being,  than  he  was  when  the  first 
chicken  was  hatched.  Its  business  is  to  live  a 
brief  chicken  life,  lay,  and  be  eaten.  And  this 
reminded  Philip  that  his  real  occupation  was 
hunting  hens'  eggs.  And  this  he  did,  in  the 
mows,  in  the  stalls,  under  the  floor -planks,  in 
every  hidden  nook.  The  hen's  instinct  is  to  be 
orderly,  and  have  a  secluded  nest  of  her  own,  and 
bring  up  a  family.  But  in  such  a  communistic 
body  it  is  a  wise  hen  who  knoAvs  her  own  chicken. 
Nobody  denies  to  the  hen  maternal  instincts  or 
domestic  proclivities,  but  what  an  ill  example  is 
a  hen  community! 

And  then  Philip  climbed  up  the  hill,  through 
the  old  grass-plot  and  the  orchard,  to  the  rocks 
and  the  forest  edge,  and  the  great  view.  It  had 
more  meaning  to  him  than  when  he  was  a  boy, 
and  it  was  more  beautiful.  In  a  certain  peace 
ful  charm,  he  had  seen  nothing  anywhere  in  the 
world  like  it.  Partly  this  was  because  his  boyish 
impressions,  the  first  fresh  impressions  of  the 
visible  world,  came  back  to  him  ;  but  surely  it 
was  very  beautiful.  More  experienced  travellers 
than  Philip  felt  its  unique  charm. 

When  he  descended,  Alice  was  waiting  to 
breakfast  with  him.  Mrs.  Maitland  declared, 
with  an  approving  smile  on  her  placid,  aging 
face,  that  he  was  the  same  good-for-nothing  boy. 
But  Alice  said,  as  she  sat  down  to  the  little  table 
127 


THAT    FORTUNE 

with  Philip,  "It  is  different,  mother,  with  us 
city  folks."  They  were  in  the  middle  room,  and 
the  windows  opened  to  the  west  upon  the  river- 
meadows  and  the  wooded  hills  beyond,  and 
through  one  a  tall  rose-bush  was  trying  to  thrust 
its  fragrant  bloom. 

What  a  dainty  breakfast !  Alice  flushed  with 
pleasure.  It  was  so  good  of  him  to  come  to 
them.  Had  he  slept  well  ?  Did  it  seem  like 
home  at  all?  Philip's  face  showed  that  it  was 
home  without  the  need  of  saying  so.  Such  cof 
fee — yes,  a  real  aroma  of  the  berry !  Just  a  little 
more,  would  he  have  ?  And  as  Alice  raised  the 
silver  pitcher,  there  was  a  deep  dimple  in  her 
sweet  cheek.  How  happy  she  was !  And  then 
the  butter,  so  fresh  and  cool,  and  the  delicious 
eggs — by  the  way,  he  had  left  a  hatful  in  the 
kitchen  as  he  came  in.  Alice  explained  that  she 
did  not  make  the  eggs.  And  then  there  was  the 
journey,  the  heat  in  the  city,  the  grateful  sight 
of  the  Deerfield,  the  splendid  morning,  the  old 
barn,  the  water  ing -trough,  the  view  from  the 
hill — everything  just  as  it  used  to  be. 

"Dear  Phil,  it  is  so  nice  to  have  you  here," 
and  there  were  tears  in  Alice's  eyes,  she  was  so 
happy. 

After  breakfast  Philip  strolled  down  the  coun 
try  road  through  the  village.  How  familiar  was 
every  step  of  the  way ! — the  old  houses  jutting 
128 


THAT    FORTUNE 

out  at  the  turns  in  the  road ;  the  glimpse  of  the 
river  beyond  the  little  meadow  where  Captain 
Rice  was  killed ;  the  spring  under  the  ledge  over 
which  the  snap-dragon  grew;  the  dilapidated 
ranks  of  fence  smothered  in  vines  and  fire- weeds ; 
the  cottages,  with  flower-pots  in  front ;  the  stores, 
with  low  verandas  ornamented  with  boxes  and 
barrels ;  the  academy  in  its  green  on  the  hill ;  the 
old  bridge  over  which  the  circus  elephant  dared 
not  walk ;  the  new  and  the  old  churches,  with 
rival  steeples ;  and,  not  familiar,  the  new  inn. 

And  he  knew  everybody,  young  and  old,  at 
doorways,  in  the  fields  or  gardens,  and  had  for 
every  one  a  hail  and  a  greeting.  How  he  enjoyed 
it  all,  and  his  self-consciousness  added  to  his  pleas 
ure,  as  he  swung  along  in  his  well-fitting  city 
clothes,  broad-shouldered  and  erect — it  is  aston 
ishing  how  much  a  tailor  can  do  for  a  man  who 
responds  to  his  efforts.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  come 
across  such  a  hero  as  this  in  real  life,  and  not 
have  to  invent  him,  as  the  saying  is,  out  of  the 
whole  cloth.  Philip  enjoyed  the  world,  and  he 
enjoyed  himself,  because  it  was  not  quite  his  old 
self,  the  farmer's  boy  going  on  an  errand.  There 
must  be  knowledge  all  along  the  street  that  he 
was  in  the  great  law  office  of  Hunt,  Sharp  & 
Tweedle.  And,  besides,  Philip's  name  must  be 
known  to  all  the  readers  of  magazines  in  the 
town  as  a  writer,  a  name  in  more  than  one  list 
i  129 


THAT    FORTUNE 

of  "  contributors."  That  was  fame.  Translated, 
however,  into  country  comprehension  it  was 
something  like  this,  if  he  could  have  heard  the 
comments  after  he  had  passed  by  : 

"  Yes, that's  Phil  Burnett,  sure  enough;  but  I'd 
hardly  know  him  ;  spruced  up  mightily.  I  won 
der  what  he's  at  2" 

"  I  heard  he  was  down  in  New  York  trying  to 
law  it.  I  heard  he's  been  writin'  some  for  news 
papers.  Accordin'  to  his  looks,  must  pay  a  durn 
sight  better'n  farmin'." 

"  "Well,  I  always  said  that  boy  wa'n't  no  skee- 
zics." 

Almost  the  first  question  Philip  asked  Alice 
on  his  return  was  about  the  new  inn,  the  Pea 
cock  Inn. 

"  There  seemed  a  good  deal  of  stir  about  it  as 
I  passed." 

"  Why,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  about  it.  It's  the 
great  excitement.  Rivervale  is  getting  known. 
The  Mavicks  are  there.  I  hear  they've  taken 
pretty  much  the  whole  of  it." 

"  The  Mavicks  ?" 

"  Yes,  the  New  York  Mavicks,  that  you  wrote 
us  about,  that  were  in  the  paper." 

"  How  long  have  they  been  there  ?" 

"A  week.  There  is  Mrs.  Mavick  and  her 
daughter,  and  the  governess,  and  two  maids,  and 
a  young  fellow  in  uniform — yes,  livery — and  a 
130 


THAT    FORTUNE 

coachman  in  the  same,  and  a  stablef ul  of  horses 
and  carriages.  It  upset  the  village  like  a  circus. 
And  they  say  there's  a  French  chef  in  white  cap 
and  apron,  who  comes  to  the  side-door  and  jab 
bers  to  the  small  boys  like  fireworks." 

"  How  did  it  come  about  ?" 

"  Naturally,  I  guess ;  a  city  family  wanting  a 
quiet  place  for  summer  in  the  country.  But  you 
will  laugh.  Patience  first  discovered  it.  One 
day,  sitting  at  the  window,  she  saw  a  two-horse 
buggy  driven  by  the  landlord  of  the  Peacock, 
and  a  gentleman  by  his  side.  'Well,  I  wonder 
who  that  is — city  man  certainly.  And  wherever 
is  he  going  ?  May  be  a  railroad  man.  But  there 
is  nothing  the  matter  with  the  railroad.  Shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  is  going  to  see  the  tunnel.  If  it 
was  just  that,  the  landlord  wouldn't  drive  him ; 
he'd  send  a  man.  And  they  keep  stopping  and 
pointing  and  looking  round.  No,  it  isn't  the  rail 
road,  it's  scenery.  And  what  can  a  man  like  that 
want  with  scenery  ?  He  does  look  like  a  railroad 
man.  It  may  be  tunnel,  but  it  isn't  all  tun 
nel.'  When  the  team  came  back  in  the  after 
noon,  Patience  was  again  at  the  window  ;  she 
had  heard  meantime  from  Jabez  that  a  city  man 
was  stopping  at  the  Peacock.  '  There  he  goes, 
and  looking  round  more  than  ever.  They've 
stopped  by  the  bridge  and  the  landlord  is  point 
ing  out.  It's  not  tunnel,  it's  scenery.  I  tell  you, 
131 


THAT    FORTUNE 

he  is  a  city  boarder.  Not  that  he  cares  about 
scenery;  it's  for  his  family.  City  families  are  al 
ways  trying  to  find  a  grand  new  place,  and  he 
has  heard  of  Eivervale  and  the  Peacock  Inn. 
Maybe  the  tunnel  had  something  to  do  with  it.' " 

"  Why,  it's  like  second  sight." 

"  No,  Patience  says  it's  just  judgment.  And 
she  generally  hits  it.  At  any  rate,  the  family  is 
here." 

The  explanation  of  their  being  there  —  it 
seemed  to  Philip  providential — was  very  simple. 
Mr.  Mavick  had  plans  about  the  Hoosac  Tunnel 
that  required  him  to  look  at  it.  Mrs.  Mavick 
took  advantage  of  this  to  commission  him  to 
look  at  a  little  inn  in  a  retired  village  of  which 
she  had  heard,  and  to  report  on  scenery  and  cli 
mate.  Warm  days  and  cool  nights  and  simplic 
ity  was  her  idea.  Mavick  reported  that  the 
place  seemed  made  for  the  family. 

Evelyn  was  not  yet  out,  but  she  was  very 
nearly  out,  and  after  the  late  notoriety  Mrs.  Ma 
vick  dreaded  the  regular  Newport  season.  And, 
in  the  mood  of  the  moment,  she  was  tired  of 
the  Newport  palace.  She  always  said  that  she 
liked  simplicity — a  common  failing  among  peo 
ple  who  are  not  compelled  to  observe  it.  Per 
haps  she  thought  she  was  really  fond  of  rural 
life  and  country  ways.  As  she  herself  said,  "  If 
you  have  a  summer  cottage  at  Newport  or 
132 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Lenox,  it  is  necessary  to  go  off  somewhere  and 
rest."  And  then  it  would  be  good  for  Evelyn  to 
live  out-of-doors  and  see  the  real  country,  and,  as 
for  herself,  as  she  looked  in  the  mirror,  "  I  shall 
drink  milk  and  go  to  bed  early.  Henderson  used 
to  say  that  a  month  in  New  Hampshire  made 
another  woman  of  me." 

Oh,  to  find  a  spot  where  we  could  be  undis 
turbed,  alone  and  unknown.  That  was  the  pro 
gramme.  But  Carmen  simply  could  not  be  any 
where  content  if  she  were  unnoticed.  It  was  not 
so  easy  to  give  up  daily  luxury,  and  habits  of  ease 
at  the  expense  of  attendants,  or  the  ostentation 
which  had  become  a  second  nature.  Therefore  the 
"establishment"  went  along  with  her  to  River- 
vale,  and  the  shy,  modest  little  woman,  who  had 
dropped  down  into  the  country  simplicity  that  she 
so  dearly  loved,  greatly  enjoyed  the  sensation  that 
her  coming  produced.  It  needed  no  effort  on 
her  part  to  produce  the  sensation.  The  carriage, 
and  coachman  and  footman  in  livery,  would  have 
been  sufficient ;  and  then  the  idea  of  one  family 
being  rich  enough  to  take  the  whole  hotel !  The 
liveries,  the  foreign  cook  in  his  queer  cap  and 
apron,  and  all  the  goings-on  at  the  Peacock 
were  the  inexhaustible  topic  of  talk  in  every 
farm-house  for  ten  miles  around.  Eivervale 
was  a  self-respecting  town,  and  principled 
against  luxury  and  self-indulgence,  and  judged 
133 


THAT    FORTUNE 

with  a  just  and  severe  judgment  the  world  of 
fashion  and  of  the  grasping,  wicked  millionaires. 
And  now  this  world  with  all  its  vain  show  had 
plumped  down  in  the  midst  of  them.  Those  who 
had  travelled  and  seen  the  ostentation  of  cities 
smiled  a  superior  smile  at  the  curiosity  and  won 
der  exhibited,  but  even  those  who  had  never  seen 
the  like  were  cautious  about  letting  their  surprise 
appear.  Especially  in  the  presence  of  fashion 
and  wealth  would  the  independent  American 
citizen  straighten  his  back-bone,  reassuring  him 
self  that  he  was  as  good  as  anybody.  To  be  sure, 
people  flew  to  windows  when  the  elegant  equi 
page  dashed  by,  and  everybody  found  frequent 
occasion  to  drive  or  walk  past  the  Peacock  Inn. 
It  was  only  the  novelty  of  it,  in  a  place  that 
rather  lacked  novelties. 

And  yet  there  prevailed  in  the  community  a 
vague  sense  that  millions  were  there,  and  a  curi 
ous  expectation  of  some  individual  benefit  from 
them.  All  the  young  berry -pickers  were  un 
usually  active,  and  poured  berries  into  the  kitch 
en  door  of  the  inn.  There  was  not  a  housewife 
who  was  not  a  little  more  anxious  about  the  prod 
uct  of  her  churning ;  not  a  farmer  who  did  not 
think  that  perhaps  cord-wood  would  rise,  that 
there  would  be  a  better  demand  for  garden 
"  sass,"  and  more  market  for  chickens,  and  who 
did  not  regard  with  more  interest  his  promising 
134 


THAT    FORTUNE 

colt.  When  he  drove  to  the  village  his  rig  was 
less  shabby  and  slovenly  in  appearance.  The 
young  fellows  who  prided  themselves  upon  a 
neat  buggy  and  a  fast  horse  made  their  turn 
outs  shine,  and  dashed  past  the  inn  with  a  self- 
conscious  air.  Even  the  stores  began  to  "  slick 
up"  and  arrange  their  miscellaneous  notions 
more  attractively,  and  one  of  them  boldly  put  in 
a  window  a  placard,  "  Latest  New  York  Style." 
When  the  family  went  to  the  Congregational 
church  on  Sunday  not  the  slightest  notice  was 
taken  of  them — though  every  woman  could  have 
told  to  the  last  detail  what  the  ladies  wore — but 
some  of  the  worshippers  were  for  the  first  time  a 
little  nervous  about  the  performance  of  the  choir, 
and  the  deacons  heard  the  sermon  chiefly  with 
reference  to  what  a  city  visitor  would  think  of  it. 
Mrs.  Mavick  was  quite  equal  to  the  situation. 
In  the  church  she  was  devout,  in  the  village  she 
was  affable  and  friendly.  She  made  acquaint 
ances  right  and  left,  and  took  a  simple  inter 
est  in  everybody  and  everything.  She  was  on 
easy  terms  with  the  landlord,  who  declared, 
"  There  is  a  woman  with  no  nonsense  in  her." 
She  chatted  with  the  farmers  who  stopped  at  the 
inn  door,  she  bought  things  at  the  stores  that 
she  did  not  want,  and  she  speedily  discovered 
Aunt  Hepsy,  and  loved  to  sit  with  her  in  the  lit 
tle  shop  and  pick  up  the  traditions  and  the  gossip 
135 


THAT    FORTUNE 

of  the  neighborhood.  And  she  did  not  confine 
her  angelic  visits  to  the  village.  On  one  pretence 
and  another  she  made  her  way  into  every  farm 
house  that  took  her  fancy,  penetrated  the  kitch 
ens  and  dairies,  and  got,  as  she  told  McDonald, 
into  the  inner  life  of  the  people. 

She  must  see  the  grave  of  Captain  Moses  Rice. 
And  on  this  legitimate  errand  she  one  day  car 
ried  her  fluttering  attractiveness  and  patchou- 
ly  into  the  Maitland  house.  Mrs.  Maitland  was 
civil,  but  no  more.  Alice  was  civil  but  reserved 
— a  great  many  people,  she  said,  came  to  see  the 
graves  in  the  old  orchard.  But  Mrs.  Mavick  was 
not  a  bit  abashed.  She  expressed  herself  de 
lighted  with  everything.  It  was  such  a  rest, 
such  a  perfectly  lovely  country,  and  everybody 
was  so  hospitable !  And  Aunt  Hepsy  had  so  in 
terested  her  in  the  history  of  the  region !  But  it 
was  difficult  to  get  her  talk  responded  to. 

However,  when  Miss  Patience  came  in  she 
made  better  headway.  She  had  heard  so  much 
of  Miss  Maitland's  apartments.  She  herself  was 
interested  in  decorations.  She  had  tried  to  do 
something  in  her  New  York  home.  But  there 
were  so  many  ideas  and  theories,  and  it  was  so 
hard  to  be  natural  and  artificial  at  the  same  time. 
She  had  no  doubt  she  could  get  some  new  ideas 
from  Miss  Maitland.  Would  it  be  asking  too 
much  to  see  her  apartments  ?  She  really  felt  like 
136 


THAT    FORTUNE 

a  stranger  nowhere  in  Rivervale.  Patience  was 
only  too  delighted,  and  took  her  into  her  museum 
of  natural  history,  art,  religion,  and  vegetation. 

"  She  might  have  gone  to  the  grave-yard  with 
out  coming  into  the  house,"  Alice  remarked. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  her  mother,  "  I  think  she  is 
very  amusing.  You  shouldn't  be  so  exclusive, 
Alice." 

"  Mother,  I  do  believe  she  paints." 

With  Patience,  Mrs.  Mavick  felt  on  surer 
ground. 

"  How  curious,  how  very  curious  and  delight 
ful  it  is !  Such  knowledge  of  nature,  such  art  in 
arrangement." 

"  Oh,  I  just  put  them  up,"  said  Patience,  "  as  I 
thought  they  ought  by  rights  to  be  put  up." 

"  That's  it.  And  you  have  combined  every 
thing  here.  You  have  given  me  an  idea.  In  our 
house  we  have  a  Japan  room,  and  an  Indian  room, 
and  a  Chinese  room,  and  an  Otaheite,  and  I  don't 
know  what — Egyptian,  Greek,  and  not  one  Amer 
ican,  not  a  really  American.  That  is,  according 
to  American  ideas,  for  you  have  everything  in 
these  two  rooms.  I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Mavick." 
(Mr.  Mavick  never  received  the  letter.) 

When  she  came  away  it  was  with  a  profusion 

of  thanks,  and  repeated  invitations  to  drop  in  at 

the  inn.     Alice  accompanied  her  to  the  first  stone 

that  marked  the  threshold  of  the  side  door,  and 

137 


THAT    FORTUNE 

was  bowing  her  away,  when  Mr.  Philip  swung 
over  the  fence  by  the  wood-shed,  with  a  shot-gun 
on  his  shoulder,  and  swinging  in  his  left  hand  a 
gray  squirrel  by  its  bushy  tail,  and  was  immedi 
ately  in  front  of  the  group. 

"  Ah  !"  involuntarily  from  Mrs.  Mavick.  An 
introduction  was  inevitable. 

"  My  cousin,  Mr.  Burnett,  Mrs.  Mavick."  Philip 
raised  his  cap  and  bowed. 

"  A  hunter,  I  see." 

"  Hardly,  madam.  In  vacations  I  like  to  walk 
in  the  woods  with  a  gun." 

"  Then  you  are  not — " 

"  ISTo,"  said  Philip,  smiling,  "  unfortunately  I 
cannot  do  this  all  the  time." 

"  You  are  of  the  city,  then  ?" 

"  With  the  firm  of  Hunt,  Sharp  &  Tweedle." 

"  Ah,  my  husband  knows  them,  I  believe." 

"  I  have  seen  Mr.  Mavick,"  and  Philip  bowed 
again. 

"  How  lucky !" 

Mrs.  Mavick  had  an  eye  for  a  fine  young  fel 
low — she  never  denied  that — and  Philip's  manly 
figure  and  easy  air  were  not  lost  on  her.  Pres 
ently  she  said  : 

"  We  are  here  for  a  good  part  of  the  summer. 

Mr.  Mavick's  business  keeps  him  in  the  city  and 

we  have  to  poke  about  a  good  deal  alone.    ISTow, 

Miss  Alice,  I  am  so  glad  I  have  met  your  cousin. 

138 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Perhaps  he  will  show  us  some  of  the  interesting 
places  and  the  beauties  of  the  country  he  knows 
so  well."  And  she  looked  sideways  at  Philip. 

"  Yes,  he  knows  the  country,"  said  Alice,  with 
out  committing  herself. 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  delighted  to  do  what  I 
can  for  you  whenever  you  need  my  services," 
said  Philip,  who  had  reasons  for  wishing  to  know 
the  Mavicks  which  Alice  did  not  share. 

"  That's  so  good  of  you !  Excursions,  picnics 
— oh,  we  will  arrange.  You  must  come  and  help 
me  arrange.  And  I  hope,"  with  a  smile  to  Alice, 
"  you  can  persuade  your  cousin  to  join  us  some 
times." 

Alice  bowed,  they  all  bowed,  and  Mrs  Mavick 
said  au  revoir,  and  went  swinging  her  parasol 
down  the  driveway.  Then  she  turned  and  called 
back,  "  This  is  the  first  long  walk  I  have  taken." 
And  then  she  said  to  herself,  "  Rather  stiff,  except 
the  young  man  and  the  queer  old  maid.  But 
what  a  pretty  girl  the  younger  must  have  been 
ten  years  ago !  These  country  flowers !" 


CHAPTER  XII 

MES.  MAVICK  thought  herself  fortunate  in  find 
ing,  in  the  social  wilderness  of  Kivervale,  such  a 
presentable  young  gentleman  as  Philip.  She  had 
persuaded  herself  that  she  greatly  enjoyed  her 
simple  intercourse  with  the  inhabitants,  and  she 
would  have  said  that  she  was  in  deep  sympathy 
with  their  lives.  No  doubt  in  New  York  she 
would  relate  her  summer  adventures  as  some 
thing  very  amusing,  but  for  the  moment  this 
adaptable  woman  seemed  to  herself  in  a  very  in 
genuous,  receptive,  and  sympathetic  state  of  mind. 
Still,  there  was  a  limit  to  the  entertaining  power 
of  Aunt  Hepsy,  which  \vas  perceived  when  she 
began  to  repeat  her  annals  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  to  bring  forward  again  and  again  the  little 
nuggets  of  wisdom  which  she  had  evolved  in  the 
small  circle  of  her  experience.  And  similarly 
Mrs.  Mavick  became  aware  that  there  was  a 
monotony  in  the  ideas  brought  forward  by  the 
farmers  and  the  farmers'  wives,  whether  in  the 
kitchen  or  the  best  room,  which  she  lighted  up 
by  her  gracious  presence,  that  it  was  possible  to 
140 


THAT    FORTUNE 

be  tired  of  the  most  interesting  "peculiarities" 
when  once  their  novelty  was  exhausted,  and  that 
so-called  "characters"  in  the  country  fail  to  sat 
isfy  the  requirements  of  intimate  or  long  com 
panionship.  Their  world  is  too  narrowly  circum 
scribed. 

The  fact  that  Philip  was  a  native  of  the 
place,  and  so  belonged  to  a  world  that  was 
remote  from  her  own,  made  her  free  to  seek 
his  aid  in  making  the  summer  pass  agreeably 
without  incurring  any  risk  of  social  obligations. 
Besides,  when  she  had  seen  more  of  him,  she 
experienced  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  in  his  com 
pany.  His  foreign  travel,  his  reading,  his  life  in 
the  city,  offered  many  points  of  mutual  interest, 
and  it  was  a  relief  to  her  to  get  out  of  the  nar 
row  range  of  topics  in  the  provincial  thought, 
and  to  have  her  allusions  understood.  Philip, 
on  his  part,  was  not  slow  to  see  this,  or  to  per 
ceive  that  in  the  higher  intellectual  ranges,  the 
serious  topics  which  occupied  the  attention  of 
the  few  cultivated  people  in  the  neighborhood, 
Mrs.  Mavick  had  little  interest  or  understanding, 
though  there  was  nothing  she  did  not  profess  an 
interest  in  when  occasion  required.  Philip  was 
not  of  a  suspicious  nature,  and  it  may  not  have 
occurred  to  him  that  Mrs.  Mavick  was  simply 
amusing  herself,  as  she  would  do  with  any  agree 
able  man,  young  or  old,  who  fell  in  her  way,  and 
141 


THAT    FORTUNE 

would  continue  to  do  so  if  she  reached  the  age 
of  ninety. 

On  the  contrary,  it  never  seemed  to  occur  to 
Mrs.  Mavick,  who  was  generally  suspicious,  that 
Philip  was  making  himself  agreeable  to  the 
mother  of  Evelyn.  In  her  thought  Evelyn  was 
still  a  child,  in  leading-strings,  and  would  be  till 
she  was  formally  launched,  and  the  social  gulf 
between  the  great  heiress  and  the  law  clerk  and 
poor  writer  was  simply  impassable.  All  of  which 
goes  to  show  that  the  most  astute  women  are 
not  always  the  wisest. 

To  one  person  in  Eivervale  the  coming  of  Mrs. 
Mavick  and  her  train  of  worldliness  was  unwel 
come.  It  disturbed  the  peaceful  simplicity  of  the 
village,  and  it  was  likely  to  cloud  her  pleasure 
in  Philip's  visit.  She  felt  that  Mrs.  Mavick  was 
taking  him  away  from  the  sweet  serenity  of 
their  life,  and  that  in  everything  she  said  or  did 
there  was  an  element  of  unrest  and  excitement. 
She  was  careful,  however,  not  to  show  any  of 
this  apprehension  to  Philip ;  she  showed  it  only 
by  an  increased  affectionate  interest  in  him  and 
his  concerns,  and  in  trying  to  make  the  old  home 
more  dear  to  him.  Mrs.  Mavick  was  loud  in  her 
praise  of  Alice  to  her  cousin,  and  sought  to  win 
her  confidence,  but  she  was,  after  all,  a  little  shy 
of  her,  and  probably  would  have  characterized  her 
to  a  city  friend  as  a  sort  of  virgin  in  the  Bible. 
142 


THAT    FORTUNE 

It  so  happened  that  day  after  day  went  by 
without  giving  Philip  anything  more  than  pass 
ing  glimpses  of  Evelyn,  when  she  was  driving 
Avith  her  mother  or  her  governess.  Yet  River- 
vale  never  seemed  so  ravishingly  beautiful  to  all 
his  senses.  Surely  it  was  possessed  by  a  spirit 
of  romance  and  poetry,  which  he  had  never  per 
ceived  before,  and  he  wasted  a  good  deal  of  time 
in  gazing  on  the  river,  on  the  gracious  meadows, 
on  the  graceful  contours  of  the  hills.  When  he 
was  a  lad,  in  the  tree-top,  there  had  been  some 
thing  stimulating  and  almost  heroic  in  the  scene, 
which  awakened  his  ambition.  Now  it  was  the 
idyllic  beauty  that  took  possession  of  him,  trans 
formed  as  it  was  by  the  presence  of  a  woman, 
that  supreme  interpreter  of  nature  to  a  youth. 
And  yet  scarcely  a  woman — rather  a  vision  of  a 
girl,  impressible  still  to  all  the  influences  of  such 
a  scene  and  to  the  most  delicate  suggestions  of 
unfolding  life.  Probably  he  did  not  analyze  this 
feeling,  but  it  was  Evelyn  he  was  thinking  of 
when  he  admired  the  landscape,  breathed  with 
exhilaration  the  fresh  air,  and  watched  the  white 
clouds  sail  along  the  blue  vault ;  and  he  knew 
that  if  she  were  suddenly  to  leave  the  valley  all 
the  light  would  go  out  of  it  and  the  scene  would 
be  flat  to  his  eyes  and  torturing  to  his  memory. 

Mrs.  Mavick  he  encountered  continually  in  the 
village.  He  had  taken  many  little  strolls  with 
143 


TJAT    FOK1 

her  to  this  or  the  pretty  had 

exchanged  remiiscences  of  and 

had  dipped  a  lilt?  into  current  popular  book 
that  they  had  coie  to  be  on  easy,  frimdly  t 
Philip's  courte.<  and  a  certain  wit 

and  humor  of  sggestion  applied  to  ordinurv 
things,  put  him  lore  and  more  on  a  good  foot 
ing  with  her,  s  much  so  that  1  t,, 
McDonald  thatreally  young  Jlurnett  was  a 
genuine  "  find  "  i  the  country. 

It  seems  a  pir  that  the  important 
our  lives  are  so  otnraonj 
with  Evelyn,  so  ing  thought  of  and  dramai 
in  his  mind,  wa*iot  in  the  least  as  he  had  im 
agined  it.     Who  one  morning  he  >  the 
Peacock  Inn  at  le  summons  of  M:     .Mavirk,  in 
order  to  lay  outa  plan  of  campaign,  he  found 
Evelyn  and  her  overness  seated  on  ti 
da,  with  their  boks.     It  was  K \vlyn  who  rose 
first  and  came  frward,  without,  so  :  lilip 
could  see,  the  kst  embarrassment  of  n 
nition. 

"Mr.  Burnett     M.;-iiina  will  '  mo 

ment.     This  is  <  d,  Miss  McDonald." 

The  girl's  moxing  <  -'mple, 

and    in    her   shrt    wali.  :iu«l 

younger  even  thn  in  ti  and 

moved— Philip  ntic  -without  i 

self-consciousne.  id  a  way  of  looking 

144 


THAT    FORT'NE 

her  interlocutor  frankly  in  th  eyes,  or,  as  Philip 
expressed  it,  "  flashing"  upo  him. 

Philip  bowed  to  the  goveross,  and,  still  stand 
ing  and  waving  his  hand  towr.is  the  river,  hoped 
they  liked  Rivervale,  and  tli<?  added: 

"I  see  you  can  read  in  tin;  ountry." 

"We  pretend  to,"  said  K.iyn,  who  had  re 
sumed  her  seat  and  indicated!,  chair  for  Philip, 
"but  the  singing  of  that  rive  und  the  bobolinks 
in  the  meadow,  and  the  liglr.»n  the  hills  are  al 
most  too  much  for  us.  Don'r  ou  think,  McDon 
ald,  it  is  like  Scotland  ?" 

"It  would  be,"  the  goveross  replied,  "if  it 
rained  when  it  didn't  mist,  an  there  were  moors 
and  heather,  and— 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  all  tat,  but  a  feeling 
like  that,  sweet  and  retire*  nd  sort  of  lone 
some  T 

"Perhaps  Miss  McDonald  i  ins," said  Philip, 
"  that  there  isn't  much  to  fei  here  except  what 
you  see." 

Miss  McDonald  looked  ::irply  around  at 
Philip  and  remarked  :  "  Yes.  :at's  just  it.  It  is 
very  lovely,  like  almost  any  <  i  doors,  if  you  will 
give  yourself  up  to  it.  You  ^member,  Evelyn, 
how  fascinating  the  Arizon;  Jesert  was?  But 
there  was  a  romantic  additio  10  the  colored  des 
olation  because  the  Spaniars  and  the  Jesuits 
had  been  there.  Now  this  pice  lacks  traditions, 

K  145 


THAT    FORTUNE 

legends,  romance.  You  have  to  bring  your  ro 
mance  with  you." 

"  And  that  is  the  reason  you  read  here  ?" 

"  One  reason.  Especially  romances.  This 
charming  scenery  and  the  summer  sounds  of  run 
ning  water  and  birds  make  a  nice  accompani 
ment  to  the  romance." 

"But  mamma  says,"  Evelyn  interrupted, 
"there  is  plenty  of  legend  here,  and  tradition 
and  flavor,  Indians  and  early  settlers,  and  even 
Aunt  Hepsy." 

"Well,  I  confess  they  don't  appeal  to  me. 
And  as  for  Indians,  Parkman's  descriptions  of 
those  savages  made  me  squirm.  And  I  don't 
believe  there  was  much  more  romance  about 
the  early  settlers  than  about  their  descendants. 
Isn't  it  true,  Mr.  Burnett,  that  you  must  have  a 
human  element  to  make  any  country  interest- 
ing?" 

Philip  glanced  at  Evelyn,  whose  bright  face 
was  kindled  with  interest  in  the  discussion,  and 
thought,  "  Good  heavens !  if  there  is  not  human 
interest  here,  I  don't  know  where  to  look  for  it," 
but  he  only  said : 

"  Doubtless." 

"And  why  don't  you  writers  do  something 
about  it  ?  It  is  literature  that  does  it,  either  in 
Scotland  or  Judea." 

"  Well,"  said  Philip,  stoutly,  "  they  are  doing 
146 


THAT    FORTUNE 

something.  I  could  name  half  a  dozen  localities, 
even  sections  of  country,  that  travellers  visit  with 
curiosity  just  because  authors  have  thrown  that 
glamour  over  them.  But  it  is  hard  to  create  some 
thing  out  of  nothing.  It  needs  time." 

"  And  genius,"  Miss  McDonald  interjected. 

tl  Of  course,  but  it  took  time  to  transform  a 
Highland  sheep-stealer  into  a  romantic  person- 


Miss  McDonald  laughed.  "  That  is  true.  Take 
a  modern  instance.  Suppose  Evangeline  had 
lived  in  this  valley !  Or  some  simple  Gretchen 
about  whose  simple  story  all  the  world  is  in 
sympathy !" 

uOr,"  thought  Philip,  "some  Evelyn."  But 
he  replied,  looking  at  Evelyn,  "I  believe  that 
any  American  community  usually  resents  being 
made  the  scene  of  a  romance,  especially  if  it  is 
localized  by  any  approach  to  reality." 

"  Isn't  that  the  fault  mostly  of  the  writer,  who 
vulgarizes  his  material  ?" 

"  The  realists  say  no.  They  say  that  people 
dislike  to  see  themselves  as  they  are." 

«  Yery  likely,"  said  Miss  McDonald :  "  no  one 
sees  himself  as  others  see  him,  and  probably  the 
poet  who  expressed  the  desire  to  do  so  was 
simply  attitudinizing.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Burnett, 
you  know  there  is  one  place  of  sentiment,  relig 
ious  to  be  sure,  not  far  from  here.  I  hope  we 
147 


THAT    FORTUNE 

can  go  some  day  to  see  the  home  of  the  *  Moun 
tain  Miller.' " 

"  Yes,  I  know  the  place.  It  is  beyond  the 
river,  up  that  steep  road  running  into  the  sky, 
in  the  next  adjoining  hill  town.  I  doubt  if  you 
find  any  one  there  who  lays  it  much  to  heart. 
But  you  can  see  the  mill." 

"  What  is  the  Mountain  Miller?"  asked  Evelyn. 

"  A  tract  that,  when  I  was  a  girl,"  answered 
Miss  McDonald,  "  used  to  be  bound  up  with  'The 
Dairyman's  Daughter'  and  'The  Shepherd  of 
Salisbury  Plain.'  It  was  the  first  thing  that  in 
terested  me  in  New  England." 

"Well,"  said  Philip,  "it  isn't  much.  Just  a 
tract.  But  it  was  written  by  Parson  Halleck,  a 
great  minister  and  a  sort  of  Pope  in  this  region 
for  fifty  years.  It  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  the  only 
thing  of  his  that  remains." 

This  tractarian  movement  was  interrupted  by 
the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Mavick. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Burnett.  I've  been  down 
to  see  Jenkins  about  his  picnic  wagon.  Carries 
six,  besides  the  driver  and  my  man,  and  the  ham 
pers.  So,  you  see,  Miss  Alice  will  have  to  go. 
"We  couldn't  go  rattling  along  half  empty.  I'll 
go  up  and  see  her  this  afternoon.  So,  that's  set 
tled.  Now  about  the  time  and  place.  You  are 
the  director.  Let's  sit  down  and  plan  it  out.  It 
looks  like  good  weather  for  a  week." 
148 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"Miss  McDonald  says  she  wants  to  see  the 
Mountain  Miller,"  said  Philip,  with  a  smile. 

"  What's  that  ?  A  monument  like  your  Pulpit 
Rcjekt" 

"  No,  a  tract  about  a  miller." 

"  Ah,  something  religious.  I  never  heard  of 
it.  Well,  perhaps  we  had  better  begin  with 
something  secular,  and  work  round  to  that." 

So  an  excursion  was  arranged  for  the  next 
day.  And  as  Philip  walked  home,  thinking  how 
brilliant  Evelyn  had  been  in  their  little  talk,  he 
began  to  dramatize  the  excursion. 

All  excursions  are  much  alike,  exhilarating  in 
the  outset,  rarely  up  to  expectation  in  the  object, 
wearisome  in  the  return ;  but,  nevertheless,  de 
lightful  in  the  memory,  especially  if  attended 
with  some  hardship  or  slight  disaster.  To  be 
free,  in  the  open  air,  and  for  a  day  unconven 
tional  and  irresponsible,  is  the  sufficient  justifi 
cation  of  a  country  picnic ;  but  its  common  at 
traction  is  in  the  opportunity  for  bringing  young 
persons  of  the  opposite  sex  into  natural  and  un 
restrained  relations.  To  Philip  it  was  the  first 
time  in  his  life  that  a  picnic  had  ever  seemed  a 
defensible  means  of  getting  rid  of  a  day. 

The  two  persons  to  whom  this  excursion  was 
most  novel  and  exciting  were  Evelyn  and  the 
elder  maiden,  Alice,  who  sat  together  and  speed 
ily  developed  a  sympathy  with  each  other  in  the 
149 


THAT    FORTUNE 

enjoyment  of  the  country,  and  in  a  similar  poetic 
temperament,  very  shy  on  the  part  of  Alice  and 
very  frank  on  the  part  of  Evelyn.  The  whole 
wild  scene  along  the  river  was  quite  as  novel  to 
Alice  as  to  the  city  girl,  because,  although  she 
was  familiar  with  every  mile  of  it  and  had  driven 
through  it  a  hundred  times,  she  had  never  in  all 
her  life  before,  of  purpose,  gone  to  see  it.  No 
doubt  she  had  felt  its  wildness  and  beauty,  but 
now  for  the  first  time  she  looked  at  it  as  scenery, 
as  she  might  have  looked  at  a  picture  in  a  gallery. 
And  in  the  contagion  of  Evelyn's  outspoken  en 
thusiasm  she  was  no  longer  afraid  to  give  timid 
expression  to  the  latent  poetry  in  her  own  soul. 
And  daring  to  express  this,  she  seemed  to  herself 
for  the  first  time  to  realize  vividly  the  nobility 
and  grace  of  the  landscape.  And  yet  there  was 
a  difference  in  the  appreciation  of  the  two.  More 
widely  read  and  travelled,  Evelyn's  imagination 
took  a  wider  range  of  comparison  and  of  admira 
tion,  she  was  appealed  to  by  the  large  features 
and  the  grandiose  effects ;  while  Alice  noted 
more  the  tenderer  aspects,  the  wayside  flowers 
and  bushes,  the  exotic-looking  plants,  which  she 
longed  to  domesticate  in  what  might  be  called 
the  Sunday  garden  on  the  terraces  in  front  of  her 
house.  For  it  is  in  these  little  cultivated  places 
by  the  door-step,  places  of  dreaming  in  the  sum 
mer  hours  after  meeting  and  at  sunset,  that  the 


» 
150 


THAT    FORTUNE 

New  England  maiden  experiences  something  of 
that  tender  religious  sentiment  which  was  not 
much  fed  in  the  barrenness  of  the  Congregational 
meeting-house. 

The  Pulpit  Rock,  in  the  rough  pasture  land  of 
Zoar,  was  reached  by  a  somewhat  tedious  climb 
from  the  lonely  farm-house,  in  a  sheltered  nook, 
through  straggling  woods  and  gray  pastures.  It 
was  a  vast  exposed  surface  rising  at  a  slight 
angle  out  of  the  grass  and  undergrowth.  Along 
the  upper  side  was  a  thin  line  of  bushes,  and, 
pushing  these  aside,  the  observer  was  always 
startled  at  the  unexpected  scene — as  it  were  the 
raising  of  a  curtain  upon  another  world.  He 
stood  upon  the  edge  of  a  sheer  precipice  of  a 
thousand  feet,  and  looked  down  upon  a  green 
amphitheatre  through  the  bottom  of  which  the 
brawling  river,  an  amber  thread  in  the  summer 
foliage,  seemed  trying  to  get  an  outlet  from  this 
wilderness  cul  de  sac.  From  the  edge  of  this 
precipice  the  first  impulse  was  to  start  back  in 
surprise  and  dread,  but  presently  the  observer 
became  reassured  of  its  stability,  and  became 
fascinated  by  the  lonesome  wildness  of  the 
scene. 

"  Why  is  it  called  Pulpit  Rock  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Mavick ;  "  I  see  no  pulpit." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Philip,  "  the  name  was  nat 
urally  suggested  to  a  religious  community,  whose 

151 


THAT    FORTUNE 

poetic  images  are  mainly  Biblical,  and  who 
thought  it  an  advantageous  place  for  a  preacher 
to  stand,  looking  down  upon  a  vast  congregation 
in  the  amphitheatre." 

"  So  it  is,"  exclaimed  Evelyn.  "  I  can  see  John 
the  Baptist  standing  here  now,  and  hear  his  voice 
crying  in  the  wilderness." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Mrs.  Mavick,  persisting  in 
her  doubt,  "  of  course  in  Zoar.  Anywhere  else  in 
the  world  it  would  be  called  the  Lover's  Leap." 

"  That  is  odd,"  said  Alice ;  "  there  was  a  party 
of  college  girls  came  here  two  years  ago  and 
made  up  a  story  about  it  which  was  printed,  how 
an  Indian  maiden  pursued  by  a  white  man  ran 
up  this  hill  as  if  she  had  been  a  deer,  disappeared 
from  his  sight  through  these  bushes,  and  took  the 
fatal  leap.  They  called  it  the  Indian  Maiden's 
Rock.  But  it  didn't  take.  It  will  always  be 
Pulpit  Kock." 

"So  you  see,  Miss  McDonald,"  said  Philip, 
"that  writers  cannot  graft  legends  on  the  old 
stock." 

"  That  depends  upon  the  writer,"  returned  the 
Scotch  woman,  shortly.  "  I  didn't  see  the  school 
girl's  essay." 

"When  the  luncheon  was  disposed  of,  with  the 
usual  adaptation  to  nomadic  conditions,  and  the 
usual  merriment  and  freedom  of  personal  com 
ment,  and  the  wit  that  seems  so  brilliant  in  the 
152 


THAT    FORTUNE 

open  air  and  so  flat  in  print,  Mrs.  Mavick  de 
clared  that  she  was  tired  by  the  long  climb  and 
the  unusual  excitement. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  the  Pulpit,"  she  said ;  "  but  I 
am  sleepy,  and  if  you  young  people  will  amuse 
yourselves,  I  will  take  a  nap  under  that  tree." 

Presently,  also,  Alice  and  the  governess  with 
drew  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  and  Evelyn 
and  Philip  were  left  to  the  burden  of  entertain 
ing  each  other.  It  might  have  been  an  embar 
rassing  situation  but  for  the  fact  that  all  the  rest 
of  the  party  were  in  sight,  that  the  girl  had  not 
the  least  self-consciousness,  having  had  no  ex 
perience  to  teach  her  that  there  was  anything  to 
be  timid  about  in  one  situation  more  than  in  an 
other,  and  that  Philip  was  so  absolutely  content 
to  be  near  Evelyn  and  hear  her  voice  that  there 
was  room  for  nothing  else  in  his  thought.  But 
rather  to  his  surprise  Evelyn  made  no  talk  about 
the  situation  or  the  day,  but  began  at  once  with 
something  in  her  mind,  a  directness  of  mental 
operation  that  he  found  was  characteristic  of  her. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Burnett,  that  there  is 
something  of  what  Miss  McDonald  regards  as 
the  lack  of  legend  and  romance  in  this  region 
in  our  life  generally." 

"  I  fancy  everybody  feels  that  who  travels  much 
elsewhere.  You  mean  life  seems  a  little  thin,  as 
the  critics  say  ?" 

153 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Yes,  lacks  color  and  background.  But,  you 
see,  I  have  no  experience.  Perhaps  it's  owing  to 
Miss  McDonald.  I  cannot  get  the  plaids  and  tar 
tans  and  Jacobins  and  castles  and  what-not  out  of 
my  head.  Our  landscapes  are  just  landscapes." 

"  But  don't  you  think  we  are  putting  history 
and  association  into  them  pretty  fast  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  that  takes  a  long  time.  I 
mean  now.  Take  this  lovely  valley  and  region, 
how  easily  it  could  be  made  romantic." 

"  Not  so  very  easy,  I  fancy." 

"Well,  I  was  thinking  about  it  last  night." 
And  then,  as  if  she  saw  a  clear  connection  be 
tween  this  and  what  she  was  going  to  say,  "  Miss 
McDonald  says,  Mr.  Burnett,  that  you  are  a 
writer." 

"  I  ?    Why,  I'm,  I'm— fl,  lawyer." 

"Of  course,  that's  business.  That  reminds  me 
of  what  papa  said  once :  <  It's  lucky  there  is  so 
much  law,  or  half  the  world,  including  the  law 
yers,  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do,  trying  to 
get  around  it  and  evade  it.'  And  you  won't  mind 
my  repeating  it — I  was  a  mite  of  a  girl — I  said, 
'  Isn't  that  rather  sophistical,  papa?'  And  mam 
ma  put  me  down — 'It  seems  to  me,  child,  you 
are  using  pretty  big  words.' "  They  both  laughed. 
But  suddenly  Evelyn  added : 

"Why  don't  you  do  it?" 

"Do  what?" 

154 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"Write  a  story  about  it — what  Miss  McDonald 
calls  i  invest  the  region  with  romance.' " 

The  appeal  was  very  direct,  and  it  was  enforced 
by  those  wonderful  eyes  that  seemed  to  Philip 
to  discern  his  powers,  as  he  felt  them,  and  his 
ambitions,  and  to  express  absolute  confidence  in 
him.  His  vanity  was  touched  in  its  most  sus 
ceptible  spot.  Here  seemed  to  be  a  woman,  nay, 
a  soul,  who  understood  him,  understood  him  even 
better  than  Celia,  the  life-long  confidante.  It  is  a 
fatal  moment  for  men  and  women,  that  in  which 
they  feel  the  subtle  flattery  of  being  understood 
by  one  of  the  opposite  sex.  Philip's  estimation 
of  himself  rose  pari  passu  with  his  recognition 
of  the  discernment  and  intellectual  quality  of  the 
frank  and  fascinating  girl  who  seemed  to  believe 
in  him.  But  he  restrained  himself  and  only  asked, 
after  a  moment  of  apparent  reflection  upon  the 
general  proposition : 

"  Well,  Miss  Mavick,  you  have  been  here  some 
time.  Have  you  discovered  any  material  for  such 
use  r 

"Why,  perhaps  not,  and  I  might  not  know 
what  to  do  with  it  if  I  had.  But  perhaps  you 
don't  mean  what  I  mean.  I  mean  something 
fitting  the  setting.  Not  the  domestic  novel. 
Miss  McDonald  says  we  are  vulgarized  in  all 
our  ideals  by  so  much  domesticity.  She  says 
that  Jennie  Deans  would  have  been  just  an 

155 


THAT    FORTUNE 

ordinary,  commonplace  girl  but  for  Walter 
Scott." 

"  Then  you  want  a  romance  ?" 

"  No.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  do  want. 
But  I  know  it  when  I  see  it."  And  Evelyn 
looked  down  and  appeared  to  be  studying  her 
delicate  little  hands,  interlacing  her  taper,  ivory 
fingers — but  Philip  knew  she  did  not  see  them — 
and  then  looked  up  in  his  face  again  and  said : 

"  I'll  tell  you.  This  morning  as  we  came  up  I 
was  talking  all  the  way  with  your  cousin.  It 
took  some  time  to  break  the  ice,  but  gradually 
she  began  to  say  things,  half  stories,  half  poetic, 
not  out  of  books,  things,  that  if  said  with  assur 
ance,  in  the  city  would  be  called  wit.  And  then 
1  began  to  see  her  emotional  side,  her  pure  imag 
ination,  such  a  refinement  of  appreciation  and 
justice — I  think  there  is  an  immovable  basis  of 
justice  in  her  nature — and  charity,  and  I  think 
she'd  be  heroic,  with  all  her  gentleness,  if  occa 
sion  offered." 

"  I  see,"  said  Philip,  rather  lightly,  "  that  you 
improved  your  time  in  finding  out  what  a  rare 
creature  Alice  is.  But,"  and  this  more  gravely, 
"  it  would  surprise  her  that  you  have  found  it 
out." 

"  I  believe  you.  I  fancy  she  has  not  the  least 
idea  what  her  qualities  are,  or  her  capacities  of 
doing  or  of  suffering,  and  the  world  will  never 
156 


THAT    FORTUNE 

know — that  is  the  point  —  unless  some  genius 
comes  along  and  reveals  them." 

"  How  ?» 

"Why,  through  a  tragedy,  a  drama,  a  story, 
in  which  she  acts  out  her  whole  self.  Some  act 
it  out  in  society.  She  never  will.  Such  sweet 
ness  and  strength  and  passion — yes,  I  have  no 
doubt,  passion  under  all  the  reserve !  I  feel  it 
but  I  cannot  describe  it ;  I  haven't  imagination 
to  make  you  see  what  I  feel." 

"  You  come  very  near  it,"  said  Philip,  with  a 
smile.  And  after  a  moment  the  girl  broke  out 
again : 

"  Materials !  You  writers  go  searching  all 
round  for  materials,  just  as  painters  do,  fit  for 
your  genius." 

"  But  don't  you  know  that  the  hardest  thing 
to  do  is  the  obvious,  the  thing  close  to  you  ?" 

"  I  dare  say.  But  you  won't  mind  ?  It  is  just 
an  illustration.  I  went  the  other  day  with  mother 
to  Alice's  house.  She  was  so  sort  of  distant  and 
reserved  that  I  couldn't  know  her  in  the  least  as 
I  know  her  now.  And  there  was  the  rigid  Puri 
tan,  her  father, representing  the  Old  Testament; 
and  her  placid  mother,  with  all  the  spirit  of  the 
New  Testament ;  and  then  that  dear  old  maiden 
aunt,  representing  I  don't  know  what,  maybe  a 
blind  attempt  through  nature  and  art  to  escape 
out  of  Puritanism ;  and  the  typical  old  frame 
157 


THAT    FORTUNE 

farm-house — why,  here  is  material  for  the  sweet 
est,  most  pathetic  idyl.  Yes,  the  Story  of  Alice. 
In  another  generation  people  would  come  long 
distances  to  see  the  valley  where  Alice  lived,  and 
her  spirit  would  pervade  it." 

There  could  be  but  one  end  to  such  a  burst  of 
enthusiasm,  and  both  laughed  and  felt  a  relief  in 
a  merriment  that  was,  after  all,  sympathetic.  But 
Evelyn  was  a  persistent  creature,  and  presently 
she  turned  to  Philip,  again  with  those  appealing 
eyes. 

"  Now,  why  don't  you  do  it  3" 

Philip  hesitated  a  moment  and  betrayed  some 
embarrassment  under  the  questioning  of  the 
truthful  eyes. 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  tell  you.  I  have — I 
am  writing  something." 

"  Yes  ?" 

"  Not  that  exactly.  I  couldn't,  don't  you  see, 
betray  and  use  my  own  relatives  in  that  way." 

"  Yes,  I  see  that." 

"  It  isn't  much.  I  cannot  tell  how  it  will 
come  out.  I  tell  you — I  don't  mean  that  I  have 
any  right  to  ask  you  to  keep  it  as  a  secret  of 
mine,  but  it  is  this  way :  If  a  writer  gives  away 
his  imagination,  his  idea,  before  it  is  fixed  in  form 
on  paper,  he  seems  to  let  the  air  of  all  the  world 
upon  it  and  it  disappears,  and  isn't  quite  his  as  it 
was  before  to  grow  in  his  own  mind." 
158 


Til  AT    FORTUNE 

"  I  can  understand  that,"  Evelyn  replied. 

"  Well — "  and  Philip  found  himself  launched. 
It  is  so  easy  to  talk  about  one's  self  to  a  sympa 
thetic  listener.  He  told  Evelyn  a  little  about  his 
life,  and  how  the  valley  used  to  seem  to  him  as 
a  boy,  and  how  it  seemed  now  that  he  had  had 
experience  of  other  places  and  people,  and  how 
his  studies  and  reading  had  enabled  him  to  see 
things  in  their  proper  relations,  and  how,  finally, 
gradually  the  idea  for  a  story  in  this  setting  had 
developed  in  his  mind.  And  then  he  sketched 
in  outline  the  story  as  he  had  developed  it,  and 
left  the  misty  outlines  of  its  possibilities  to  the 
imagination. 

The  girl  listened  with  absorbing  interest,  and 
looked  the  approval  which  she  did  not  put  in 
words.  Perhaps  she  knew  that  a  bud  will  never 
come  to  flower  if  you  pull  it  in  pieces.  When 
Philip  had  finished  he  had  a  momentary  regret 
for  this  burst  of  confidence,  which  he  had  never 
given  to  any  one  else.  But,  in  the  light  of 
Evelyn's  quick  approval  and  understanding,  it 
was  only  momentary.  Perhaps  neither  of  them 
thought  what  a  dangerous  game  this  is,  for  two 
young  souls  to  thus  unbosom  themselves  to  each 
other. 

A  call  from  Mrs.  Mavick  brought  them  to 
their  feet.  It  was  time  to  go.  Evelyn  simply 
said: 

159 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  I  think  the  valley,  Mr.  Burnett,  looks  a  little 
different  already." 

As  they  drove  home  along  the  murmuring 
river  through  the  golden  sunset,  the  party  were 
mostly  silent.  Only  Mrs.  Mavick  and  Philip,  who 
sat  together,  kept  up  a  lively  chatter,  lively  be 
cause  Philip  was  elated  with  the  event  of  the 
day,  and  because  the  nap  under  the  beech-tree 
in  the  open  air  had  brightened  the  wits  of  one 
of  the  cleverest  women  Philip  had  ever  met. 

If  the  valley  did  seem  different  to  Evelyn, 
probably  she  did  not  think  so  far  as  to  own  to 
herself  whether  this  was  owing  to  the  outline  of 
the  story,  which  ran  in  her  mind,  or  to  the  pres 
ence  of  the  young  author. 

Alice  and  Philip  were  set  down  at  the  farm 
house,  and  the  company  parted  with  mutual  en 
thusiasm  over  the  success  of  the  excursion. 

"  She  is  a  much  more  interesting  girl  than  I 
thought,"  Alice  admitted.  "Not  a  bit  fashion 
able." 

"  And  she  likes  you." 

"Me?" 

"  Yes,  your  ears  would  have  burned." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad,  for  I  think  she  is  sincere." 

"  And  I  can  tell  you  another  thing.     I  had  a 

long  talk  while  you  were  taking  your  siesta.    She 

takes  an  abstract  view  of  things,  judging  the 

right  and  wrong  of  them,  without  reference  to 

160 


THAT    FORTUNE 

conventionalities  or  the  practical  obstacles  to 
carrying  out  her  ideas,  as  if  she  had  been  edu 
cated  by  reading  and  not  by  society.  It  is  very 
interesting." 

"Philip,"  and  Alice  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoul 
der,  "  don't  let  it  be  too  interesting." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN  Philip  said  that  Evelyn  was  educated  in 
the  world  of  literature  and  not  in  the  conflicts 
of  life  he  had  hit  the  key-note  of  her  condition 
at  the  moment  she  was  coming  into  the  world 
and  would  have  to  act  for  herself.  The  more  he 
saw  of  her  the  more  was  he  impressed  with  the 
fact  that  her  discrimination,  it  might  almost  be 
called  divination,  and  her  judgment  were  based 
upon  the  best  and  most  vital  products  of  the  hu 
man  mind.  A  selection  had  evidently  been  made 
for  her,  until  she  had  acquired  the  taste,  or  the 
habit  rather,  of  choosing  only  the  best  for  her 
self.  Yery  little  of  the  trash  of  literature,  or  the 
ignoble — that  is  to  say,  the  ignoble  view  of  life 
—had  come  into  her  mind.  Consequently  she 
judged  the  world  as  she  came  to  know  it  by 
high  standards.  And  her  mind  was  singularly 
pure  and  free  from  vulgar  images. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  this  sort  of  educa 
tion  would  have  its  disadvantages.  The  world 
is  firmly  fixed  in  the  idea  that  both  for  its  pleas 
ure  and  profit  it  is  necessary  to  know  good  and 
162 


THAT    FORTUNE 

evil.  Ignorance  of  the  evil  in  the  world  is,  how 
ever,  not  to  be  predicated  of  those  who  are  famil 
iar  only  with  the  great  masterpieces  of  liter 
ature,  for  if  they  are  masterpieces,  little  or  great, 
they  exhibit  human  nature  in  all  its  aspects. 
And,  further  than  this,  it  ought  to  be  demonstra 
ble,  a  priori,  that  a  mind  fed  on  the  best  and 
not  confused  by  the  weak  and  diluted,  or  cor 
rupted  by  images  of  the  essentially  vulgar  and 
vile,  would  be  morally  healthy  and  best  fitted  to 
cope  with  the  social  problems  of  life.  The  Testa 
ments  reveal  about  everything  that  is  known 
about  human  nature,  but  such  is  their  clear,  high 
spirit,  and  their  quality,  that  no  one  ever  traced 
mental  degeneration  or  low  taste  in  literature,  or 
want  of  virility  in  judgment,  to  familiarity  with 
them.  On  the  contrary,  the  most  vigorous  in 
tellects  have  acknowledged  their  supreme  in 
debtedness  to  them. 

It  is  not  likely  that  Philip  made  any  such  elab 
orate  analysis  of  the  girl  with  whom  he  was  in 
love,  or  attempted,  except  by  a  general  reference 
to  the  method  of  her  training,  to  account  for  the 
purity  of  her  mind  and  her  vigorous  discernment. 
He  was  in  love  with  her  more  subtle  and  hidden 
personality,  with  the  girl  just  becoming  a  woman, 
with  the  mysterious  sex  that  is  the  inspiration  of 
most  of  the  poetry  and  a  good  part  of  the  hero 
ism  in  the  world.  And  he  would  have  been  in 
163 


THAT    FORTUNE 

love  with  her,  let  her  education  have  been  what 
it  might.  He  was  in  love  before  he  heard  her 
speak.  And  whatever  she  would  say  was  bound 
to  have  a  quality  of  interest  and  attraction  that 
could  be  exercised  by  no  other  lips.  It  might  be 
argued — a  priori  again,  for  the  world  is  bound 
to  go  on  in  its  own  way — that  there  would  be 
fewer  marriages  if  the  illusion  of  the  sex  did  not 
suffice  for  the  time  to  hide  intellectual  poverty, 
and,  what  is  worse,  ignobleness  of  disposition. 

It  was  doubtless  fortunate  for  this  particular 
love-making,  though  it  did  not  seem  so  to  Philip, 
that  it  was  very  much  obstructed  by  lack  of  op 
portunities,  and  that  it  was  not  impaired  in- its 
lustre  by  too  much  familiarity.  In  truth,  Philip 
would  have  said  that  he  saw  very  little  of  Evelyn, 
because  he  never  saw  her  absolutely  alone.  To 
be  sure  he  was  much  in  her  presence,  a  welcome 
member  of  the  group  that  liked  to  idle  on  the 
veranda  of  the  inn,  and  in  the  frequent  excur 
sions,  in  which  Philip  seemed  to  be  the  compan 
ion  of  Mrs.  Mavick  rather  than  of  her  daughter. 
But  she  was  never  absent  from  his  thought,  his 
imagination  was  wholly  captive  to  her  image, 
and  the  passion  grew  in  these  hours  of  absence 
until  she  became  an  indispensable  associate  in  all 
that  he  was  or  could  ever  hope  to  be.  Alice,  who 
discerned  very  clearly  Mrs.  Mavick  and  her  am 
bition,  was  troubled  by  Philip's  absorption  and 
164 


THAT    FORTUNE 

the  cruel  disappointment  in  store  for  him.  To 
her  he  was  still  the  little  boy,  and  all  her  tender 
ness  for  him  was  stirred  to  shield  him  from  the 
suffering  she  feared. 

But  what  could  she  do  ?  Philip  liked  to  talk 
about  Evelyn,  to  dwell  upon  her  peculiarities  and 
qualities,  to  hear  her  praised  ;  to  this  extent  he 
was  confidential  with  his  cousin,  but  never  in  re 
gard  to  his  own  feeling.  That  was  a  secret  con 
cerning  which  he  was  at  once  too  humble  and 
too  confident  to  share  with  any  other.  None 
knew  better  than  he  the  absurd  presumption  of 
aspiring  to  the  hand  of  such  a  great  heiress,  and 
yet  he  nursed  the  vanity  that  no  other  man  could 
ever  appreciate  and  love  her  as  he  did. 

Alice  was  still  more  distracted  and  in  sympathy 
with  Philip's  evident  aspirations  by  her  own  love 
for  Evelyn  and  her  growing  admiration  for  the 
girl's  character.  It  so  happened  that  mutual  sym 
pathy — who  can  say  how  it  was  related  to  Philip? 
—  had  drawn  them  much  together,  and  chance 
had  given  them  many  opportunities  for  knowing 
each  other.  Alice  had  so  far  come  out  of  her 
shell,  and  broken  the  reserve  of  her  life,  as  to 
make  frequent  visits  at  the  inn,  and  Mrs.  Mavick 
and  Evelyn  found  it  the  most  natural  and  agree 
able  stroll  by  the  river-side  to  the  farm-house, 
where  naturally,  while  the  mother  amused  her 
self  with  the  original  eccentricities  of  Pa- 
165 


THAT    FORTUNE 

tience,  her  daughter  grew  into  an  intimacy  with 
Alice. 

As  for  the  feelings  of  Evelyn  in  these  days — 
her  first  experience  of  something  like  freedom  in 
the  world — the  historian  has  only  universal  ex 
perience  to  guide  him.  In  her  heart  was  work 
ing  the  consciousness  that  she  had  been  singled 
out  as  worthy  to  share  the  confidence  of  a  man 
in  his  most  secret  ambitions  and  aspirations,  in 
the  dreams  of  youth  which  seemed  to  her  so 
noble.  For  these  aspirations  and  dreams  con 
cerned  the  world  in  which  she  had  lived  most 
and  felt  most.  If  Philip  had  talked  to  her  as  he 
had  to  Celia  about  his  plans  for  success  in  life  she 
would  have  been  less  interested.  But  there  was 
nothing  to  warn  her  personally  in  these  un 
worldly  confessions.  Nor  did  Philip  ever  seem 
to  ask  anything  of  her  except  sympathy  in  his 
ideas.  And  then  there  was  the  friendship  of 
Alice,  which  could  not  but  influence  the  girl.  In 
the  shelter  of  that  the  intercourse  of  the  summer 
took  on  natural  relations.  For  some  natures 
there  is  no  nurture  of  love  like  the  security  of 
family  protection,  under  cover  of  which  there  is 
so  little  to  excite  the  alarm  of  a  timid  maiden. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Philip  that  Miss  McDon 
ald  took  a  liking  to  him.  They  were  thrown 
much  together.  They  were  both  good  walkers, 
and  liked  to  climb  the  hills  and  explore  the  wild 
166 


THAT    FORTUNE 

mountain  streams.  Philip  would  have  confessed 
that  he  was  fond  of  nature,  and  fancied  there 
was  a  sort  of  superiority  in  his  attitude  towards 
it  to  that  of  his  companion,  who  was  merely  in 
terested  in  plants — just  a  botanist.  This  attitude, 
which  she  perceived,  amused  Miss  McDonald. 

"  If  you  American  students,"  she  said  one  day 
when  they  were  seated  on  a  fallen  tree  in  the 
forest,  and  she  was  expatiating  on  a  rare  plant 
she  had  found,  "paid  no  more  attention  to  the 
classics  than  to  the  world  you  live  in,  few  of  you 
would  get  a  degree." 

"  Oh,  some  fellows  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing," 
Philip  replied.  "But  I  have  noticed  that  all 
English  women  have  some  sort  of  fad — plants, 
shells,  birds,  something  special." 

"Fad!"  exclaimed  the  Scotchwoman.  "Yes, 
I  suppose  it  is,  if  reading  is  a  fad.  It  is  one  way 
of  finding  out  about  things.  You  admire  what 
the  Americans  call  scenery;  we,  since  you  pro 
voke  me  to  say  it,  love  nature — I  mean  its  indi 
vidual,  almost  personal  manifestations.  Every 
plant  has  a  distinct  character  of  its  own.  I 
saw  the  other  day  an  American  landscape  pict 
ure  with  a  wild,  uncultivated  foreground.  There 
was  not  a  botanical  thing  in  it.  The  man  who 
painted  it  didn't  know  a  sweetbrier  from  a 
thistle.  Just  a  confused  mass  of  rubbish.  It 
was  as  if  an  animal  painter  should  compose 
167 


THAT    FORTUNE 

a  group  and  you  could  not  tell  whether  it  was 
made  up  of  sheep  or  rabbits  or  dogs  or  foxes  or 
griffins." 

"  So,  you  want  things  picked  out  like  a  photo 
graph?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  want  nature.  You  can 
not  give  character  to  a  bit  of  ground  in  a  land 
scape  unless  you  know  the  characters  of  its  de 
tails.  A  man  is  no  more  fit  to  paint  a  land 
scape  than  a  cage  of  monkeys,  unless  he  knows 
the  language  of  the  nature  he  is  dealing  with 
down  to  the  alphabet.  The  Japanese  know  it 
so  well  that  they  are  not  bothered  with  minu 
tiae,  but  give  you  character." 

"  And  you  think  that  science  is  an  aid  to  art  ?" 

"Yes,  if  there  is  genius  to  transform  it  into 
art.  You  must  know  the  intimate  habits  of  any 
thing  you  paint  or  write  about.  You  cannot  even 
caricature  without  that.  They  talk  now  about 
Dickens  being  just  a  caricaturist.  He  couldn't 
have  been  that  if  he  hadn't  known  the  things  he 
caricatured.  That  is  the  reason  there  is  so  little 
good  caricature." 

"  Isn't  your  idea  of  painting  rather  anatomi 
cal  ?"  Philip  ventured  to  ask. 

"Do  you  think  that  if  Raphael  had  known 
nothing  of  anatomy  the  world  would  have  ac 
cepted  his  Sixtine  Madonna  for  the  woman  she 
is  ?"  was  the  retort. 

168 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  I  see  it  is  interesting,"  said  Philip,  shifting 
his  ground  again,  "  but  what  is  the  real  good  of 
all  these  botanical  names  and  classifications?" 

Miss  McDonald  gave  a  weary  sigh.  "Well, 
you  must  put  things  in  order.  You  studied  phi 
lology  in  Germany  ?  The  chief  end  of  that  is  to 
trace  the  development,  migration,  civilization  of 
the  human  race.  To  trace  the  distribution  of 
plants  is  another  way  to  find  out  about  the  race. 
But  let  that  go.  Don't  you  think  that  I  get 
more  pleasure  in  looking  at  all  the  growing 
things  we  see,  as  we  sit  here,  than  you  do  in 
seeing  them  and  knowing  as  little  about  them  as 
you  pretend  to?" 

Philip  said  that  he  could  not  analyze  the  degree 
of  pleasure  in  such  things,  but  he  seemed  to  take 
his  ignorance  very  lightly.  "What  interested  him 
in  all  this  talk  was  that,  in  discovering  the  mind 
of  the  governess,  he  was  getting  nearer  to  the 
mind  of  her  pupil.  And  finally  he  asked  (and 
Miss  McDonald  smiled,  for  she  knew  what  this 
conversation,  like  all  others  with  him,  must  ulti 
mately  come  to), 

"  Does  the  Mavick  family  also  take  to  bot 
any?" 

"  Oh  yes.     Mrs.  Mavick  is  intimate  with  all 

the  florists  in   New  York.     And  Miss  Evelyn, 

when  I  take  home  these  specimens,  will  analyze 

them  and  tell  all  about  them.     She  is  very  sharp 

169 


THAT    FORTUNE 

about  such  things.  You  must  have  noticed  that 
she  likes  to  be  accurate  ?" 

"  But  she  is  fond  of  poetry." 

"Yes,  of  poetry  that  she  understands.  She 
has  not  much  of  the  emotional  vagueness  of 
many  young  girls." 

All  this  was  very  delightful  for  Philip,  and  for 
a  long  time,  on  one  pretext  or  another,  he  kept 
the  conversation  revolving  about  this  point.  He 
fancied  he  was  very  deep  in  doing  this.  To  his 
interlocutor  he  was,  however,  very  transparent. 
And  the  young  man  would  have  been  surprised 
and  flattered  if  he  had  known  how  much  her 
indulgence  of  him  in  this  talk  was  due  to  her 
genuine  liking  for  him. 

When  they  returned  to  the  inn,  Mrs.  Mavick 
began  to  rally  Philip  about  his  feminine  taste  in 
woodsy  things.  He  would  gladly  have  thrown 
botany  or  anything  else  overboard  to  win  the 
good  opinion  of  Evelyn's  mother,  but  botany 
now  had  a  real  significance  and  a  new  meaning 
for  him.  Therefore  he  put  in  a  defence,  by  say 
ing, 

"  Botany,  in  the  hands  of  Miss  McDonald,  can 
not  be  called  very  feminine ;  it  is  a  good  deal 
more  difficult  to  understand  and  master  than  law." 

"  Maybe  that's  the  reason,"  said  Mrs.  Mavick, 
u  why  so  many  more  girls  are  eager  to  study  law 

now  than  botany." 

170 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Law  ?"  cried  Evelyn ;  "  and  to  practise  ?" 

"  Certainly.  Don't  you  think  that  a  bright, 
clever  woman,  especially  if  she  were  pretty, 
would  have  an  advantage  with  judge  and  jury?" 

"Not  if  judge  and  jury  were  women,"  Miss 
McDonald  interposed. 

"  And  you  remember  Portia?"  Mrs.  Mavick  con 
tinued. 

"  Portia,"  said  Evelyn ;  "yes,  but  that  is  poetry; 
and,  McDonald,  wasn't  it  a  kind  of  catch?  How 
beautifully  she  talked  about  mercy,  but  she 
turned  the  sharp  edge  of  it  towards  the  Jew.  I 
didn't  like  that." 

"  Yes,"  Miss  McDonald  replied,  "  it  was  a  kind 
of  trick,  a  poet's  law.  What  do  you  say,  Mr. 
Burnett?" 

"  Why,"  said  Philip,  hesitating,  "  usually  it  is 
understood  when  a  man  buys  or  wins  anything 
that  the  appurtenances  necessary  to  give  him 
full  possession  go  with  it.  Only  in  this  case  an 
other  law  against  the  Jew  was  understood.  It 
was  very  clever,  nothing  short  of  woman's  wit." 

"  Are  there  any  women  in  your  firm,  Mr.  Bur 
nett  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Mavick. 

"  Not  yet,  but  I  think  there  are  plenty  of  law 
yers  who  would  be  willing  to  take  Portia  for  a 
partner." 

"  Make  her  what  you  call  a  consulting  partner. 
That  is  just  the  way  with  you  men — as  soon  as 

171 


THAT    FORTUNE 

you  see  women  succeeding  in  doing  anything  in 
dependently,  you  head  them  off  by  matrimony." 

"Not  against  their  wills,"  said  the  governess, 
with  some  decision. 

"Oh,  the  poor  things  are  easily  hypnotized. 
And  I'm  glad  they  are.  The  funniest  thing  is  to 
hear  the  Woman's  Eights  women  talk  of  it  as  a 
state  of  subjection,"  and  Mrs.  Mavick  laughed 
out  of  her  deep  experience. 

"  Eights,  what's  that  ?"  asked  Evelyn. 

"  Well,  child,  your  education  has  been  neglect 
ed.  Thank  McDonald  for  that." 

"  Don't  you  know,  Evelyn,"  the  governess  ex 
plained,  "  that  we  have  always  said  that  women 
had  a  right  to  have  any  employment,  or  do  any 
thing  they  were  fitted  to  do  ?" 

"  Oh,  that,  of  course ;  I  thought  everybody 
said  that.  That  is  natural.  But  I  mean  all  this 
fuss.  I  guess  I  don't  understand  what  you  all 
are  talking  about."  And  her  bright  face  broke 
out  of  its  look  of  perplexity  into  a  smile. 

"  Why,  poor  thing,"  said  her  mother,  "  you 
belong  to  the  down -trodden  sex.  Only  you 
haven't  found  it  out." 

"  But,  mamma,"  and  the  girl  seemed  to  be 
turning  the  thing  over  in  her  mind,  as  was  her 
wont  with  any  new  proposition,  "  there  seem  to 
be  in  history  a  good  many  women  who  never 
found  it  out  either." 

172 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  It  is  not  so  now.  I  tell  you  we  are  all  in  a 
wretched  condition." 

"  You  look  it,  mamma,"  replied  Evelyn,  who 
perfectly  understood  when  her  mother  was  chaff 
ing. 

"  But  I  think  I  don't  care  so  much  for  the 
lawyers,"  Mrs.  Mavick  continued,  with  more  air 
of  conviction  ;  "  what  I  can't  stand  are  the  doc 
tors,  the  female  doctors.  I'd  rather  have  a  fe 
male  priest  about  me  than  a  female  doctor." 

This  was  not  altogether  banter,  for  there  had 
been  times  in  Carmen's  career  when  the  exter 
nals  of  the  Roman  Church  attracted  her,  and 
she  wished  she  had  an  impersonal  confidant,  to 
whom  she  could  confess — well,  not  everything — 
and  get  absolution.  And  she  could  make  a  kind 
of  confidant  of  a  sympathetic  doctor.  But  she 
went  on : 

"  To  have  a  sharp  woman  prying  into  all  my 
conditions  and  affairs  !  No,  I  thank  you.  Don't 
you  think  so,  McDonald  ?" 

"  They  do  say,"  the  governess  admitted,  "  that 
women  doctors  haven't  as  much  consideration 
for  women's  whims  as  men."  And,  after  a  mo 
ment,  she  continued : 

"  But,  for  all  that,  women  ought  to  understand 
about  women  better  than  men  can,  and  be  the 
best  doctors  for  them." 

"  So  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Evelyn,  appealing  to 
173 


THAT    FORTUNE 

her  mother.  "Don't  you  remember  that  day 
you  took  me  down  to  the  infirmary  in  which 
you  are  interested,  and  how  nice  it  was,  nobody 
but  women  for  doctors  and  nurses  and  all  that? 
"Would  you  put  that  in  charge  of  men  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  child !"  cried  Mrs.  Mavick,  turning 
to  her  daughter  and  patting  her  on  the  head. 
"  Of  course  there  are  exceptions.  But  I'm  not 
going  to  be  one  of  the  exceptions.  Ah,  well,  I 
suppose  I  am  quite  behind  the  age ;  but  the  con 
duct  of  my  own  sex  does  get  on  my  nerves  some 
times." 

Evelyn  was  silent.  She  was  often  so  when 
discussions  arose.  They  were  apt  to  plunge  her 
into  deep  thought.  To  those  who  knew  her  his 
tory,  guarded  from  close  contact  with  anything 
but  the  world  of  ideas,  it  was  very  interesting  to 
watch  her  mental  attitude  as  she  was  day  by  day 
emerging  into  a  knowledge  of  the  actual  world 
and  encountering  its  cross-currents.  To  Philip, 
who  was  getting  a  good  idea  of  what  her  educa 
tion  had  been,  an  understanding  promoted  by  his 
knowledge  of  the  character  and  attainments  of 
her  governess,  her  mental  processes,  it  may  be 
safely  said,  opened  a  new  world  of  thought.  JSTot 
that  mental  processes  made  much  difference  to  a 
man  in  his  condition,  still,  they  had  the  effect  of 
setting  her  personality  still  further  apart  from 
that  of  other  women.  One  day  when  they  hap- 
174 


THAT    FORTUNE 

pened  to  be  tete-a-tete  in  one  of  their  frequent  ex 
cursions—a  rare  occasion — Evelyn  had  said  : 

"  How  strange  it  is  that  so  many  things  that 
are  self-evident  nobody  seems  to  see,  and  that 
there  are  so  many  things  that  are  right  that 
can't  be  done." 

"  That  is  the  way  the  world  is  made,"  Philip 
had  replied.  She  was  frequently  coming  out 
with  the  sort  of  ideas  and  questions  that  are 
often  proposed  by  bright  children,  whose  think 
ing  processes  are  not  only  fresh  but  undisturbed 
by  the  sophistries  or  concessions  that  experience 
has  woven  into  the  thinking  of  our  race.  "  Per 
haps  it  hasn't  your  faith  in  the  abstract." 

"  Faith?  I  wonder.  Do  you  mean  that  peo 
ple  do  not  dare  go  ahead  and  do  things  2" 

"  Well,  partly.  You  see,  everybody  is  hedged 
in  by  circumstances." 

"  Yes.  I  do  begin  to  see  circumstances.  I 
suppose  I'm  a  sort  of  a  goose — in  the  abstract, 
as  you  say."  And  Evelyn  laughed.  It  was  the 
spontaneous,  contagious  laugh  of  a  child.  "You 
know  that  Miss  McDonald  says  I'm  nothing  but 
a  little  idealist." 

"  Did  you  deny  it  ?" 

"  Oh  no.  I  said,  so  were  the  Apostles,  all 
save  one — he  was  a  realist." 

It  was  Philip's  turn  to  laugh  at  this  new  defi 
nition,  and  upon  this  the  talk  had  drifted  into  the 
175 


THAT    FORTUNE 

commonplaces  of  the  summer  situation  and  about 
Rivervale  and  its  people.  Philip  regretted  that 
his  vacation  would  so  soon  be  over,  and  that  he 
must  say  good-bye  to  all  this  repose  and  beauty, 
and  to  the  intercourse  that  had  been  so  delightful 
to  him. 

"  But  you  will  write,"  Evelyn  exclaimed. 

Philip  was  startled. 

"Write?" 

"  Yes,  your  novel." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  without  any  enthusiasm. 

"  You  must.  I  keep  thinking  of  it.  What  a 
pleasure  it  must  be  to  create  a  real  drama  of  life." 

So  this  day  on  the  veranda  of  the  inn  when 
Philip  spoke  of  his  hateful  departure  next  day, 
and  there  was  a  little  chorus  of  protest,  Evelyn 
was  silent ;  but  her  silence  was  of  more  signifi 
cance  to  him  than  the  protests,  for  he  knew  her 
thoughts  were  on  the  work  he  had  promised  to 
go  on  with. 

" It  is  too  bad,"  Mrs.  Mavick  exclaimed ;  "we 
shall  be  like  a  lot  of  sheep  without  a  shepherd." 

"  That  we  shall,"  the  governess  joined  in.  "  At 
any  rate,  you  must  make  us  out  a  memorandum 
of  what  is  to  be  seen  and  done  and  how  to  do  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Philip,  gayly,  "  I'll  write  to-night 
a  complete  guide  to  Eivervale." 

"  We  are  awfully  obliged  to  you  for  what  you 
have  done."  Mrs,  Mavick  was  no  doubt  sincere 
176 


THAT    FORTUNE 

in  this.  And  she  added,  "  Well,  we  shall  all  be 
back  in  the  city  before  long." 

It  was  a  natural  thing  to  say,  and  Philip  un 
derstood  that  there  was  no  invitation  in  it,  more 
than  that  of  the  most  conventional  acquaintance. 
For  Mrs.  Mavick  the  chapter  was  closed. 

There  were  the  most  cordial  hand-shakings  and 
good-byes,  and  Philip  said  good-bye  as  lightly  as 
anybody.  But  as  he  walked  along  the  road  he 
knew,  or  thought  he  was  sure,  that  the  thoughts 
of  one  of  the  party  were  going  along  with  him 
into  his  future,  and  the  peaceful  scene,  the  mur 
muring  river,  the  cat-birds  and  blackbirds  calling 
in  the  meadow,,  and  the  spirit  of  self-confident 
youth  in  him  said  not  good-bye,  but  au  revoir. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

OF  course  Philip  wrote  to  Celia  about  his  vaca 
tion  intimacy  with  the  Mavicks.  It  was  no  news 
to  her  that  the  Mavicks  were  spending  the  sum 
mer  there ;  all  the  world  knew  that,  and  society 
wondered  what  whim  of  Carmen's  had  taken  her 
out  of  the  regular  summer  occupations  and  im 
mured  her  in  the  country.  Not  that  it  gave  much 
thought  to  her,  but,  when  her  name  was  men 
tioned,  society  resented  the  closing  of  the  New 
port  house,  and  the  loss  of  her  vivacity  in  the 
autumn  at  Lenox.  She  is  such  a  hand  to  set 
things  going,  don't  you  know  ?  Mr.  Mavick  never 
made  a  flying  visit  to  his  family — and  he  was  in 
Bivervale  twice  during  the  season — that  the  news 
papers  did  not  chronicle  his  every  movement,  and 
attribute  other  motives  than  family  affection  to 
these  excursions  into  New  England.  "Was  the 
Central  system  or  the  Pennsylvania  system  con 
templating  another  raid  ?  It  could  not  be  denied 
that  the  big  operator's  connection  with  any  great 
interest  raised  suspicion  and  often  caused  anxiety. 

Naturally,  thought  Celia,  in  such  a  little  vil- 
178 


THAT    FORTUNE 

lage,  Philip  would  fall  in.  with  the  only  strangers 
there,  so  that  he  was  giving  her  no  news  in  say 
ing  so.  But  there  was  a  new  tone  in  his  letters ; 
she  detected  an  unusual  reserve  that  was  in  itself 
suspicious.  Why  did  he  say  so  much  about  Mrs. 
Mavick  and  the  governess,  and  so  little  about  the 
girl? 

"  You  don't  tell  me,"  she  wrote,  "  anything 
about  the  Infant  Phenomenon.  And  you  know 
I  am  dying  to  know." 

This  Philip  resented.  Phenomenon !  The  lit 
tle  brown  girl,  with  eyes  that  saw  so  much  and 
were  so  impenetrably  deep,  and  the  mobile  face, 
so  alert  and  responsive.  If  ever  there  was  a  nat 
ural  person,  it  was  Evelyn.  So  he  wrote : 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell ;  she  is  not  an  infant 
and  she  is  not  a  phenomenon.  Only  this :  she  has 
less  rubbish  in  her  mind  than  any  person  you 
ever  saw.  And  I  guess  the  things  she  does  not 
know  about  life  are  not  worth  knowing." 

"  I  see,"  replied  Celia;  "  poor  boy!  it's  the  moth 
and  the  star.  [That's  just  like  her,  muttered 
Philip,  she  always  assumed  to  be  the  older.]  But 
don't  mind.  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
am  a  moth  myself,  and  some  of  the  lights  I  used 
to  think  stars  have  fallen.  And,  seriously,  dear 
friend,  I  am  glad  there  is  a  person  who  does  not 
know  the  things  not  worth  knowing.  It  is  a 
step  in  the  right  direction.  I  have  been  this 
179 


THAT    FORTUNE 

summer  up  in  the  hills,  meditating.  And  I  am 
not  so  sure  of  things  as  I  was.  I  used  to  think 
that  all  women  needed  was  what  is  called  educa 
tion — science,  history,  literature — and  you  could 
safely  turn  them  loose  on  the  world.  It  certain 
ly  is  not  safe  to  turn  them  loose  without  educa 
tion — but !  I  begin  to  wonder  what  we  are  all 
coming  to.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I 
have  got  into  a  pretty  psychological  muddle,  and 
I  don't  see  much  to  hold  on  to.  I  suppose  that 
Scotch  governess  is  pious ;  I  mean  she  has  a  back 
bone  of  what  they  call  dogma ;  things  are  right 
or  wrong  in  her  mind — no  haziness.  Now,  I  am 
going  to  make  a  confession.  I've  been  thinking 
of  religion.  Don't  mock.  You  know  I  was 
brought  up  religious,  and  I  am  religious.  I  go 
to  church — well,  you  know  how  I  feel  and  espe 
cially  the  things  I  don't  believe.  I  go  to  church 
to  be  entertained.  I  read  the  other  day  that 
Cardinal  Manning  said :  i  The  three  greatest  evils 
in  the  world  to-day  are  French  devotional  books, 
theatrical  music,  and  the  pulpit  orator.  And  the 
last  is  the  worst.'  I  wonder.  I  often  feel  as  if 
I  had  been  to  a  performance.  No.  It  is  not 
about  sin  that  I  am  especially  thinking,  but  the 
sinner.  One  ought  to  do  something.  Sometimes 
I  think  I  ought  to  go  to  the  city.  You  know  I 
was  in  a  College  Settlement  for  a  while.  Now  I 
mean  something  permanent,  devoted  to. the  poor 
180 


THAT    FORTUNE 

as  a  life  occupation,  like  a  nun  or  something  of 
that  sort.  You  think  this  is  a  mood  ?  Perhaps. 
There  have  always  been  so  many  things  before 
me  to  do,  and  I  wanted  to  do  them  all.  And  I 
do  not  stick  to  anything?  You  must  not  pre 
sume  to  say  that,  because  I  confide  to  you  all 
my  errant  thoughts.  You  have  not  confided  in 
me — I  don't  insinuate  that  you  have  anything  to 
confide — but  I  cannot  help  saying  that  if  you 
have  found  a  pure  and  clear-minded  girl — Heaven 
knows  what  she  will  be  when  she  is  a  woman ! — 
I  am  sorry  she  is  not  poor." 

But  if  Philip  did  not  pour  out  his  heart  to  his 
old  friend,  he  did  open  a  lively  and  frequent  cor 
respondence  with  Alice.  E"ot  about  the  person 
who  was  always  in  his  thoughts — oh  no — but 
about  himself,  and  all  he  was  doing,  in  the  not 
unreasonable  expectation  that  the  news  would 
go  where  he  could  not  send  it  directly — so  many 
ingenious  ways  has  love  of  attaining  its  object. 
And  if  Alice,  no  doubt,  understood  all  this,  she 
was  nevertheless  delighted,  and  took  great  pleas 
ure  in  chronicling  the  news  of  the  village  and 
giving  all  the  details  that  came  in  her  way  about 
the  millionaire  family.  This  connection  with  the 
world,  if  only  by  correspondence,  was  an  outlet 
to  her  reserved  and  secluded  life.  And  her  let 
ters  recorded  more  of  her  character,  of  her  feel 
ing,  than  he  had  known  in  all  his  boyhood. 
181 


THAT    FORTUNE 

When  Alice  mentioned,  as  it  were  by  chance, 
that  Evelyn  had  asked,  more  than  once,  when 
she  had  spoken  of  receiving  letters,  if  her  cousin 
was  going  on  with  his  story,  Philip  felt  that  the 
connection  was  not  broken. 

Going  on  with  his  story  he  was,  and  with 
good  heart.  The  thought  that  "she"  might 
some  day  read  it  was  inspiration  enough.  Any 
real  creation,  by  pen  or  brush  or  chisel,  must  ex 
press  the  artist  and  be  made  in  independence  of 
the  demands  of  a  vague  public.  Art  is  vitiated 
when  the  commercial  demand,  which  may  be  a 
needed  stimulus,  presides  at  the  creation.  But 
it  is  doubtful  if  any  artist  in  letters,  or  in  form 
or  color,  ever  did  anything  well  without  having 
in  mind  some  special  person,  whose  approval 
was  desired  or  whose  criticism  was  feared.  Such 
is  the  universal  need  of  human  sympathy.  It  is, 
at  any  rate,  true  that  Philip's  story,  recast  and 
reinspired,  was  thenceforth  written  under  the 
spell  of  the  pure  divining  eyes  of  Evelyn  Mavick. 
Unconsciously  this  was  so.  For  at  this  time 
Philip  had  not  come  to  know  that  the  reason 
why  so  many  degraded  and  degrading  stories 
and  sketches  are  written  is  because  the  writers' 
standard  is  the  approval  of  one  or  two  or  a 
group  of  persons  of  vitiated  tastes  and  low 
ideals. 

The  Mavicks  did  not  return  to  town  till  late 

182 


THAT    FORTUNE 

in  the  autumn.  By  this  time  Philip's  novel  had 
been  submitted  to  a  publisher,  or,  rather,  to  state 
the  exact  truth,  it  had  begun  to  go  the  rounds  of 
the  publishers.  Mr.  Brad,  to  whose  nineteenth- 
century  and  newspaper  eye  Philip  had  shrunk 
from  confiding  his  modest  creation,  but  who  was 
consulted  in  the  business,  consoled  him  with  the 
suggestion  that  this  was  a  sure  way  of  getting  his 
production  read.  There  was  already  in  the  city 
a  considerable  body  of  professional  "readers," 
mostly  young  men  and  women,  to  whom  manu 
scripts  were  submitted  by  the  publishers,  so  that 
the  author  could  be  sure,  if  he  kept  at  it  long 
enough,  to  get  a  pretty  fair  circulation  for  his 
story.  They  were  selected  because  they  were 
good  judges  of  literature  and  because  they  had 
a  keen  appreciation  of  what  the  public  wanted 
at  the  moment.  Many  of  them  are  overworked, 
naturally  so,  in  the  mass  of  manuscripts  turned 
over  to  their  inspection  day  after  day,  and  are 
compelled  often  to  adopt  the  method  of  tea- 
tasters,  who  sip  but  do  not  swallow,  for  to  drink 
a  cup  or  two  of  the  decoction  would  spoil  their 
taste  and  impair  their  judgment,  especially  on 
new  brands.  Philip  liked  to  imagine,  as  the  weeks 
passed  away — the  story  is  old  and  need  not  be 
retold  here — that  at  any  given  hour  somebody 
was  reading  him.  He  did  not,  however,  dwell 
with  much  delight  upon  this  process,  for  the  idea 
183 


THAT    FORTUNE 

that  some  unknown  Ehadaraanthus  was  sitting 
in  judgment  upon  him  much  more  wounded  his 
amour  propre,  and  seemed  much  more  like  an  in 
vading  of  his  inner,  secret  life  and  feeling,  than 
would  be  an  instant  appeal  to  the  general  public. 
Why,  he  thought,  it  is  just  as  if  I  had  shown  it 
to  Brad  himself — a  piece  of  confidence  that  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to.  lie  did  not  know 
that  Brad  himself  was  a  reader  for  a  well-known 
house — which  had  employed  him  on  the  strength 
of  his  newspaper  notoriety — and  that  very  likely 
he  had  already  praised  the  quality  of  the  work 
and  damned  it  as  lacking  "  snap." 

It  was,  however,  weary  waiting,  and  would 
have  been  intolerable  if  his  duties  in  the  law 
office  had  not  excluded  other  thoughts  from  his 
mind  a  good  part  of  the  time.  There  were  days 
when  he  almost  resolved  to  confine  himself  to 
the  solid  and  remunerative  business  of  law,  and 
give  up  the  vague  aspirations  of  authorship.  But 
those  vague  aspirations  were  in  the  end  more  en 
ticing  than  the  courts.  Common-sense  is  not  an 
antidote  to  the  virus  of  the  literary  infection 
when  once  a  young  soul  has  taken  it.  In  his  long 
walks  it  was  not  on  the  law  that  Philip  was  rumi 
nating,  nor  was  the  fame  of  success  in  it  occupy 
ing  his  mind.  Suppose  he  could  write  one  book 
that  should  touch  the  heart  of  the  world.  Would 
he  exchange  the  sweetness  of  that  for  the  fleet- 
184 


THAT    FORTUNE 

ing  reputation  of  the  most  brilliant  lawyer  ?  In 
short,  he  magnified  beyond  all  reason  the  career 
and  reputation  of  the  author,  and  mistook  the 
consideration  he  occupies  in  the  great  world. 
And  what  a  world  it  would  be  if  there  had  not 
been  a  continuous  line  of  such  mistaken  fools  as 
he! 

That  it  was  not  literature  alone  that  inflated 
his  dreams  was  evidenced  by  the  direction  his 
walks  took.  Whatever  their  original  destination 
or  purpose,  he  was  sure  to  pass  through  upper 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  walk  by  the  Mavick  mansion. 
And  never  without  a  lift  in  his  spirits.  What 
comfort  there  is  to  a  lover  in  gazing  at  the  blank 
and  empty  house  once  occupied  by  his  mistress 
has  never  been  explained ;  but  Philip  would  have 
counted  the  day  lost  in  which  he  did  not  see  it. 

After  he  heard  from  Alice  that  the  Mavicks 
had  returned,  the  house  had  still  stronger  attrac 
tions  for  him,  for  there  was  added  the  chance  of 
a  glimpse  of  Evelyn  or  one  of  the  famil}7.  Many 
a  day  passed,  however,  before  he  mustered  up 
courage  to  mount  the  steps  and  touch  the  button. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  servant,  "  the  family  is  re 
turned,  but  they  is  h'out." 

Philip  left  his  card.     But  nothing  came  of  it, 

and  he  did  not  try  again.    In  fact,  he  was  a  little 

depressed  as  the   days   went  by.     How  much 

doubt  and  anxiety,  even  suffering,  might  have 

185 


THAT    FORTUNE 

been  spared  him  if  the  historian  at  that  moment 
could  have  informed  him  of  a  little  shopping  in 
cident  at  Tiffany's  a  few  days  after  the  Mavioks' 
return. 

A  middle-aged  lady  and  a  young  girl  were  in 
specting  some  antiques.  The  girl,  indeed,  had 
been  asking  for  ancient  coins,  and  they  were 
shown  two  superb  gold  staters  with  the  heads 
of  Alexander  and  Philip. 

"Aren't  they  beautiful?"  said  the  younger. 
"  How  lovely  one  would  be  for  a  brooch !" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  replied  the  elder,  "  and  quite  in 
the  line  of  our  Greek  reading." 

The  girl  held  them  in  her  hand  and  looked  at 
one  and  the  other  with  a  student's  discrimination. 

"  "Which  would  you  choose  ?" 

"  Oh,  both  are  fine.  Philip  of  Macedon  has  a 
certain  youthful  freshness,  in  the  curling  hair 
and  uncovered  head.  But,  of  course,  Alexander 
the  Great  is  more  important,  and  then  there  is 
the  classic  casque.  I  should  take  the  Alexander." 
The  girl  still  hesitated,  weighing  the  choice  in 
her  mind  from  the  classic  point  of  view. 

"Doubtless  you  are  right.  But" — and  she 
held  up  the  lovely  head — "this  is  not  quite  so 
common,  and — and— I  think  I'll  take  the  Mace 
don  one.  Yes,  you  may  set  that  for  me,"  turn 
ing  to  the  salesman. 

"  Diamonds  or  pearls  ?"  asked  the  jeweller. 

186 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !"  exclaimed  the  girl ;  "  just  the 
head." 

Evelyn's  education  was  advancing.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  had  something  to  con 
ceal.  The  privilege  of  this  sort  of  secret  is,  how 
ever,  an  inheritance  of  Eve.  The  first  morning 
she  wore  it  at  breakfast  Mrs.  Mavick  asked  her 
what  it  was. 

"It's  a  coin,  antique  Greek,"  Evelyn  replied, 
passing  it  across  the  table. 

"How  pretty  it  is ;  it  is  very  pretty.  Ought 
to  have  pearls  around  it.  Seems  to  be  an  inscrip 
tion  on  it." 

"  Yes,  it  is  real  old.  McDonald  says  it  is  a 
stater,  about  the  same  as  a  Persian  daric — some 
thing  like  the  value  of  a  sovereign." 

"  Oh,  indeed ;  very  interesting." 

To  give  Evelyn  her  due,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  she  blushed  at  this  equivocation  about  the 
inscription,  and  she  got  quite  hot  with  shame 
thinking  what  would  become  of  her  if  Philip 
should  ever  know  that  she  was  regarding  him  as 
a  stater  and  wearing  his  name  on  her  breast. 

One  can  fancy  what  philosophical  deductions 
as  to  the  education  of  women  Celia  Howard 
would  have  drawn  out  of  this  coin  incident ;  one 
of  them  doubtless  being  that  a  classical  educa 
tion  is  no  protection  against  love. 

But  for  Philip's  connection  with  the  thriving 
187 


THAT    FORTUNE 

firm  of  Hunt,  Sharp  &  Tweedle,  it  is  safe  to  say 
that  he  would  have  known  little  of  the  world 
of  affairs  in  "Wall  Street,  and  might  never  have 
gained  entrance  into  that  other  world,  for  which 
Wall  Street  exists,  that  society  where  its  wealth 
and  ambitious  vulgarity  are  displayed.  Thomas 
Mavick  was  a  client  of  the  firm.  At  first  they 
had  been  only  associated  with  his  lawyer,  and 
consulted  occasionally.  But  as  time  went  on  Mr. 
Mavick  opened  to  them  his  affairs  more  and 
more,  as  he  found  the  advantage  of  being  repre 
sented  to  the  public  by  a  firm  that  combined  the 
highest  social  and  professional  standing  with  all 
the  acumen  and  adroitness  that  his  complicated 
affairs  required. 

It  was  a  time  of  great  financial  feverishness 
and  uncertainty,  and  of  opportunity  for  the  most 
reckless  adventurers.  Houses  the  most  solid  were 
shaken  and  crippled,  and  those  which  were  much 
extended  in  a  variety  of  adventures  were  put  to 
their  wits'  ends  to  escape  shipwreck.  Financial 
operations  are  perpetual  war.  It  is  easy  to  cal 
culate  about  the  regular  forces,  but  the  danger 
is  from  the  unexpected  " raids"  and  the  bush 
whackers  and  guerillas.  And  since  politics  has 
become  inextricably  involved  in  financial  specu 
lations  (as  it  has  in  real  war),  the  excitement  and 
danger  of  business  on  a  large  scale  increase. 

Philip  as  a  trusted  clerk,  without  being  ad- 
188 


THAT    FORTUNE 

mitted  into  interior  secrets,  came  to  know  a  good 
deal  about  Mavick's  affairs,  and  to  be  more  than 
ever  impressed  with  his  enormous  wealth  and  the 
magnitude  of  his  operations.  From  time  to  time 
he  was  sent  on  errands  to  Mavick's  office,  and 
gradually,  as  Mavick  became  accustomed  to  him 
as  a  representative  of  the  firm,  they  came  on  a 
somewhat  familiar  footing,  and  talked  of  other 
things  than  business.  And  Mavick,  who  was  not 
a  bad  judge  of  the  capacities  of  men,  conceived 
a  high  idea  of  Philip's  single-mindedness,  of  his 
integrity  and  general  culture,  and,  as  well,  of  his 
agreeableness  (for  Philip  had  a  certain  charm 
where  he  felt  at  ease),  while  at  the  same  time  he 
discovered  that  his  mind  was  more  upon  some 
thing  else  than  law,  and  that,  if  his  success  in  his 
profession  depended  upon  his  adoption  of  the 
business  methods  of  the  Street,  he  could  not  go 
very  far.  Consequently  he  did  not  venture  upon 
the  same  confidences  with  him  that  he  habitually 
did  with  Mr.  Sharp.  Yet,  business  aside,  he  had 
an  intellectual  pleasure  in  exchanging  views  with 
Philip  which  Mr.  Sharp's  conversation  did  not 
offer  him. 

"When,  therefore,  Mrs.  Mavick  came  to  consult 
her  husband  about  the  list  for  the  coming-out 
reception  of  Evelyn,  Philip  found  a  friend  at 
court. 

"  It  is  all  plain  enough,"  said  Carmen,  as  she 

189 


THAT    FORTUNE 

sat  down  with  book  and  pencil  in  hand,  "  till  you 
come  to  the  young  men,  the  unattached  young 
men.  Here  is  my  visiting-list,  that  of  course. 
But  for  the  young  ladies  we  must  have  more 
young  men.  Can't  you  suggest  any  ?" 

"  Perhaps.     I  know  a  lot  of  young  fellows." 

"  But  I  mean  available  young  men,  those  that 
count  socially.  I  don't  want  a  broker's  board  or 
a  Chamber  of  Commerce  here." 

Mr.  Mavick  named  half  a  dozen,  and  Carmen 
looked  for  their  names  in  the  social  register. 
"  Any  more  ?" 

"  Why,  you  forgot  young  Burnett,  who  was 
with  you  last  summer  at  Rivervale.  I  thought 
you  liked  him." 

"  So  I  did  in  Kivervale.  Plain  farmer  people. 
Yes,  he  was  very  nice  to  us.  I've  been  thinking 
if  I  couldn't  send  him  something  Christmas  and 
pay  off  the  debt." 

"  He'd  think  a  great  deal  more  of  an  invitation 
to  your  reception." 

"  But  you  don't  understand.  You  never  think 
of  Evelyn's  future.  We  are  asking  people  that 
we  think  she  ought  to  know." 

"  Well,  Burnett  is  a  very  agreeable  fellow." 

"  Fiddlesticks !  He  is  nothing  but  a  law  clerk. 
Worse  than  that,  he  is  a  magazine  writer." 

"  I  thought  you  liked  his  essays  and  stories." 

"So  I  do.     But  you  don't  want  to  associate 

190 


THAT    FORTUNE 

with  everybody  you  like  that  way.  I  am  talking 
about  society.  You  must  draw  the  line  some 
where.  Oh,  I  forgot  Fogg — Dr.  LeEoy  Fogg, 
from  Pittsburg."  And  down  went  the  name  of 
Fogg. 

"  You  mean  that  young  swell  whose  business 
it  is  to  drive  a  four-in-hand  to  Yonkers  and  back, 
and  toot  on  a  horn  ?" 

"  Well,  what  of  that  ?  Everybody  who  is  any 
body,  I  mean  all  the  girls,  want  to  go  on  his 
coach." 

"  Oh,  Lord !  I'd  rather  go  on  the  Elevated." 
And  Mavick  laughed  very  heartily,  for  him. 
"  Well,  I'll  make  a  compromise.  You  take  Fogg 
and  I'll  take  Burnett.  He  is  in  a  good  firm,  he 
belongs  to  a  first-rate  club,  he  goes  to  the  Hunts' 
and  the  Scammels',  I  hear  of  him  in  good  places. 
Come." 

"  Well,  if  you  make  a  point  of  it.  I've  noth 
ing  against  him.  But  if  you  knew  the  feelings 
of  a  mother  about  her  only  daughter  you  would 
know  that  you  cannot  be  too  careful." 

When,  several  days  after  this  conversation, 
Philip  received  his  big  invitation,  gorgeously  en 
graved  on  what  he  took  to  be  a  sublimated  sort 
of  wrapping-paper,  he  felt  ashamed  that  he  had 
doubted  the  sincere  friendship  and  the  goodness 
of  heart  of  Mrs.  Mavick. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ONE  morning  in  December,  Philip  was  sent 
down  to  Mr.  Mavick's  office  with  some  impor 
tant  papers.  He  was  kept  waiting  a  considera 
ble  time  in  the  outer  room  where  the  clerks  were 
at  work.  A  couple  of  clerks  at  desks  near  the 
chair  he  occupied  were  evidently  discussing  some 
one  and  he  overheard  fragments  of  sentences — 
"  Yes,  that's  he."  "  "Well,  I  guess  the  old  man's 
got  his  match  this  time." 

When  he  was  admitted  to  the  private  office, 
he  encountered  coming  out  in  the  anteroom  a 
man  of  striking  appearance.  For  an  instant  they 
were  face  to  face,  and  then  bowed  and  passed 
on.  The  instant  seemed  to  awaken  some  memory 
in  Philip  which  greatly  puzzled  him. 

The  man  had  closely  cropped  black  hair,  black 
whiskers,  a  little  curling,  but  also  closely  trimmed, 
piercing  black  eyes,  and  the  complexion  of  a 
Spaniard.  The  nose  was  large  but  regular,  the 
mouth  square -cut  and  firm,  and  the  powerful 
jaw  emphasized  the  decision  of  the  mouth.  The 
frame  corresponded  with  the  head.  It  was  Her- 
192 


THAT    FORTUNE 

culean,  and  yet  with  no  exaggerated  develop 
ments.  The  man  was  over  six  feet  in  height,  the 
shoulders  were  square,  thfj  chest  deep,  the  hips 
and  legs  modelled  for  strength,  and  with  no 
superfluous  flesh.  Philip  noticed,  as  they  fronted 
each  other  for  an  instant  and  the  stranger  raised 
his  hat,  that  his  hands  and  feet  were  smaller 
than  usually  accompany  such  a  large  frame. 
The  impression  was  that  of  great  physical  en 
ergy,  self-confidence,  and  determined  will.  The 
face  was  not  bad,  certainly  not  in  detail,  and 
even  the  penetrating  eyes  seemed  at  the  moment 
capable  of  a  humorous  expression,  but  it  was 
that  of  a  man  whom  you  would  not  like  to  have 
your  enemy.  He  wore  a  business  suit  of  rough 
material  and  fashionable  cat,  but  he  wore  it  like 
a  man  who  did  not  give  much  thought  to-  his 
clothes. 

"What  a  striking-looking  man,"  said  Philip, 
motioning  with  his  hand  towards  the  anteroom 
as  he  greeted  Mr.  Mavick. 

"  Who,  Ault  ?"  answered  Mavick,  indiffer 
ently. 

"  Ault !     What,  Murad  Ault  ?" 

"  Nobody  else." 

"Is  it  possible?  I  thought  I  saw  a  resem 
blance.  Several  times  I  have  wondered,  but  I 
fancied  it  only  a  coincidence  of  names.  It  seemed 
absurd.  Why,  I  used  to  know  Murad  Ault  when 
N  193 


THAT    FORTUNE 

we  were  boys.  And  to  think  that  he  should  be 
the  great  Murad  Ault." 

"  He  hasn't  been  that  for  more  than  a  couple 
of  years,"  Mavick  answered,  with  a  smile  at  the 
other's  astonishment,  and  then,  with  more  in 
terest,  "  What  do  you  know  about  him  ?" 

"  If  this  is  the  same  person,  he  used  to  live  at 
Bivervale.  Came  there,  no  one  knew  where  from, 
and  lived  with  his  mother,  a  little  withered  old 
woman,  on  a  little  cleared  patch  up  in  the  hills, 
in  a  comfortable  sort  of  shanty.  She  used  to  come 
to  the  village  with  herbs  and  roots  to  sell.  Nobody 
knew  whether  she  was  a  gypsy  or  a  decayed  lady, 
she  had  such  an  air,  and  the  children  were  half 
afraid  of  her,  as  a  sort  of  witch.  Murad  went  to 
school,  and  occasionally  worked  for  some  farmer, 
but  nobody  knew  him ;  he  rarely  spoke  to  any 
one,  and  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  perfect 
devil ;  his  only  delight  seemed  to  be  in  doing  some 
dare-devil  feat  to  frighten  the  children.  We  used 
to  say  that  Murad  Ault  would  become  either  a 
pirate  or — " 

"  Broker,"  suggested  Mr.  Mavick,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  didn't  know  much  about  brokers  at  that 
time,"  Philip  hastened  to  say,  and  then  laughed 
himself  at  his  escape  from  actual  rudeness. 

"  What  became  of  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  just  disappeared.  After  I  went  away 
to  school  I  heard  that  his  mother  had  died,  and 
194 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Murad  had  gone  off — gone  West  it  was  said. 
Nothing  was  ever  heard  of  him." 

The  advent  and  rise  of  Murad  Ault  in  New 
York  was  the  sort  of  phenomenon  to  which  the 
metropolis,  which  picks  up  its  great  men  as  Na 
poleon  did  his  marshals,  is  accustomed.  The 
mystery  of  his  origin,  which  was  at  first  against 
him,  became  at  length  an  element  of  his  strength 
and  of  the  fear  he  inspired,  as  a  sort  of  elemental 
force  of  unknown  power.  Newspaper  biogra 
phies  of  him  constantly  appeared,  but  he  had 
evaded  every  attempt  to  include  him  and  his 
portrait  in  the  Lives  of  Successful  Men.  The 
publishers  of  these  useful  volumes  for  stimu 
lating  speculation  and  ambition  did  not  dare  to 
take  the  least  liberties  with  Murad  Ault. 

The  man  was  like  the  boy  whom  Philip  re 
membered.  Doubtless  he  appreciated  now  as 
then  the  value  of  the  mystery  that  surrounded 
his  name  and  origin;  and  he  very  soon  had  a 
humorous  conception  of  the  situation  that  made 
him  decline  to  be  pilloried  with  others  in  one  of 
those  volumes,  which  won  from  a  reviewer  the 
confession  that  "lives  of  great  men  all  remind 
us  we  may  make  our  lives  sublime."  One  of  the 
legends  current  about  him  was  that  he  first  ap 
peared  in  New  York  as  a  "  hand "  on  a  canal- 
boat,  that  he  got  employment  as  a  check-clerk 
on  the  dock,  that  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
195 


THAT    FORTUNE 

politicians  in  bis  ward,  and  went  into  politics  far 
enough  to  get  a  city  contract,  which  paid  him 
very  well  and  showed  him  how  easily  a  resolute 
man  could  get  money  and  use  it  in  the  city.  He 
was  first  heard  of  in  Wall  Street  as  a  curb-stone 
broker,  taking  enormous  risks  and  always  lucky. 
Yery  soon  he  set  up  an  office,  with  one  clerk  or 
errand-boy,  and  his  growing  reputation  for  sa 
gacity  and  boldness  began  to  attract  customers ; 
his  ventures  soon  engaged  the  attention  of  gueril 
las  like  himself,  who  were  wont  to  consult  him. 
They  found  that  his  advice  was  generally  sound, 
and  that  he  had  not  only  sensitiveness  but  pre 
science  about  the  state  of  the  market.  His  office 
was  presently  enlarged,  and  displayed  a  modest 
sign  of  "  Murad  Ault,  Banker  and  Broker." 

Mr.  Ault's  operations  constantly  enlarged,  his 
schemes  went  beyond  the  business  of  registering 
other  people's  bets  and  taking  a  commission  on 
them ;  he  was  known  as  a  daring  but  success 
ful  promoter,  and  he  had  a  visible  ownership  in 
steamships  and  railways,  and  projected  such  vast 
operations  as  draining  the  Jersey  marshes.  If 
he  had  been  a  citizen  of  Italy  he  would  have 
attacked  the  Roman  Gampagna  with  the  same 
confidence.  At  any  rate,  he  made  himself  so 
much  felt  and  seemed  to  command  so  many  re 
sources  that  it  was  not  long  before  he  forced  his 
way  into  the  Stock  Exchange  and  had  a  seat  in 
196 


THAT    FORTUNE 

the  Board  of  Brokers.  He  was  at  first  an  odd  fig 
ure  there.  There  was  something  flash  about  his 
appearance,  and  his  heavy  double  watch-chain 
and  diamond  shirt-studs  gave  him  the  look  of  an 
ephemeral  adventurer.  But  he  soon  took  his 
cue,  the  diamonds  disappeared,  and  the  dress 
was  toned  down.  There  seemed  to  be  two 
models  in  the  Board,  the  smart  and  neat,  and  the 
hayseed  style  adopted  by  some  of  the  most  wily 
old  operators,  who  posed  as  honest  dealers  who 
retained  their  rural  simplicity.  Mr.  Ault  adopt 
ed  a  middle  course,  and  took  the  respectable  yet 
fashionable,  solid  dress  of  a  man  of  affairs. 

There  is  no  other  place  in  the  world  where 
merit  is  so  quickly  recognized  as  in  the  Stock  Ex 
change,  especially  if  it  is  backed  by  brass  and  a 
good  head.  Ault's  audacity  made  him  feared  ;  he 
was  believed  to  be  as  unscrupulous  as  he  was  reck 
less,  but  this  did  not  much  injure  his  reputation 
when  it  was  seen  that  he  was  marvellously  suc 
cessful.  That  Ault  would  wreck  the  market,  if  he 
could  and  it  was  to  his  advantage,  no  one  doubt 
ed  ;  but  still  he  had  a  quality  that  begot  confi 
dence.  He  kept  his  word.  Though  men  might 
be  shy  of  entering  into  a  contract  with  Ault, 
they  learned  that  what  he  said  he  would  do  he 
would  do  literally.  He  was  not  a  man  of  many 
words,  but  he  was  always  decided  and  apparent 
ly  open,  and,  as  whatever  he  touched  seemed  to 
197 


THAT    FORTUNE 

thrive,  his  associates  got  the  habit  of  saying, 
"  What  Ault  says  goes." 

Murad  Ault  had  married,  so  it  was  said,  the 
daughter  of  a  boarding-house  keeper  on  the  dock. 
She  was  a  pretty  girl,  had  been  educated  in  a 
convent  (perhaps  by  his  aid  after  he  was  engaged 
to  marry  her),  and  was  a  sweet  mother  to  a  little 
brood  of  charming  children,  and  a  devout  mem 
ber  of  her  parish  church.  Those  who  had  seen 
Mrs.  Ault  when  her  carriage  took  her  occasion 
ally  to  Ault's  office  in  the  city  were  much  im 
pressed  by  her  graceful  manner  and  sweet  face, 
and  her  appearance  gave  Ault  a  sort  of  anchor 
age  in  the  region  of  respectability.  No  one 
would  have  accused  Ault  of  being  devoted  to 
any  special  kind  of  religious  worship;  but  he 
was  equally  tolerant  of  all  religions,  and  report 
said  was  liberal  in  his  wife's  church  charities. 
Besides  the  fact  that  he  owned  a  somewhat  pre 
tentious  house  in  Sixtieth  Street,  society  had 
very  little  knowledge  of  him. 

It  was,  however,  undeniable  that  he  Avas  a 
power  in  the  Street.  No  other  man's  name  was 
oftener  mentioned  in  the  daily  journals  in  con 
nection  with  some  bold  and  successful  operation. 
He  seemed  to  thrive  on  panics,  and  to  grow 
strong  and  rich  with  every  turn  of  the  wheel. 
There  is  only  one  stock  expression  in  America 
for  a  man  who  is  very  able  and  unscrupulous, 
198 


THAT    FORTUNE 

and  carries  things  successfully  with  a  high  hand 
— he  is  Napoleonic.  It  needed  only  a  few  brill 
iant  operations,  madly  reckless  in  appearance 
but  successful,  to  give  Ault  the  newspaper  sobri 
quet  of  the  Young  Napoleon. 

"  Papa,  what  does  he  mean?"  asked  the  eldest 
boy.  "  Jim  Dustin  says  the  papers  call  you  Na 
poleon." 

"  It  means,  my  boy,"  said  Ault,  with  a  grim 
smile,  "that  I  am  devoted  to  your  mother,  St. 
Helena." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Murad,"  exclaimed  his  wife  ; 
"  I'm  far  enough  from  a  saint,  and  your  destiny 
isn't  the  Island." 

"  What's  the  Island,  mamma  ?" 

"  It's  a  place  people  are  sent  to  for  their 
health." 

"In  a  boat?     Can  I  go?" 

"  You  ask  too  many  questions,  Sinclair,"  said 
Mr.  Ault ;  "  it's  time  you  were  off  to  school." 

There  seems  to  have  been  not  the  least  suspi 
cion  in  this  household  that  the  head  of  it  was  a 
pirate. 

It  must  be  said  that  Mavick  still  looked  upon 
Ault  as  an  adventurer,  one  of  those  erratic  beings 
who  appear  from  time  to  time  in  the  Street,  up 
set  everything,  and  then  disappear.  They  had 
been  associated  occasionally  in  small  deals,  and 
Ault  had  more  than  once  appealed  to  Mavick,  as 
199 


THAT    FORTUNE 

a  great  capitalist,  with  some  promising  scheme. 
They  had,  indeed,  co-operated  in  reorganizing  a 
Western  railway,  but  seemed  to  have  come  out 
of  the  operation  without  increased  confidence 
in  each  other.  What  had  occurred  nobody  knew, 
but  thereafter  there  developed  a  slight  antago 
nism  between  the  two  operators.  Ault  went  no 
more  to  consult  the  elder  man,  and  they  had  two 
or  three  little  bouts,  in  which  Mavick  did  not  get 
the  best  of  it.  This  was  not  an  unusual  thing  in 
the  Street.  Mr.  Ault  never  expressed  his  opinion 
of  Mr.  Mavick,  but  it  became  more  and  more  ap 
parent  that  their  interests  were  opposed.  Some 
one  who  knew  both  men,  and  said  that  the  one 
was  as  cold  and  selfish  as  a  pike,  and  the  other 
was  a  most  unscrupulous  dare-devil,  believed  that 
Mavick  had  attempted  some  sort  of  a  trick  on 
Ault,  and  that  it  was  the  kind  of  thing  that  the 
Spaniard  (his  complexion  had  given  him  this 
nickname)  never  forgot. 

It  is  not  intended  to  enter  into  a  defence  of  the 
local  pool  known  as  the  New  York  Stock  Ex 
change.  It  needs  none.  Some  regard  it  as  a 
necessary  stand-pipe  to  promote  and  equalize 
distribution,  others  consult  it  as  a  sort  of  Ki 
lometer,  to  note  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  waters 
and  the  probabilities  of  drought  or  flood.  Every 
body  knows  that  it  is  fall  of  the  most  gamy  and 
beautiful  fish  in  the  world — namely,  the  speckled 
200 


THAT    FORTUNE 

trout,  whose  honest  occupation  it  is  to  devour 
whatever  is  thrown  into  the  pool — a  body  gov 
erned  by  the  strictest  laws  of  political  economy 
in  guarding  against  over-population,  by  carrying 
out  the  Malthusian  idea,  in  the  habit  the  big  ones 
have  of  eating  the  little  ones.  But  occasionally 
this  harmonious  family,  which  is  animated  by  one 
of  the  most  conspicuous  traits  of  human  nature 
— to  which  we  owe  very  much  of  our  progress — 
namely,  the  desire  to  get  hold  of  everything  with 
in  reach,  and  is  such  a  useful  object-lesson  of  the 
universal  law  of  upward  struggle  that  results  in 
the  survival  of  the  fittest,  this  harmonious  family 
is  disturbed  by  the  advent  of  a  pickerel,  which 
makes  a  raid,  introduces  confusion  into  all  the 
calculations  of  the  pool,  roils  the  water,  and  drives 
the  trout  into  their  holes. 

The  presence  in  the  pool  of  a  slimy  eel  or  a 
blundering  bullhead  or  a  lethargic  sucker  is  bad 
enough,  but  the  rush  in  of  the  pickerel  is  the  ad 
vent  of  the  devil  himself.  Until  he  is  got  rid  of 
all  the  delicate  machinery  for  the  calculation  of 
chances  is  hopelessly  disturbed  ;  and  no  one  could 
tell  what  would  become  of  the  business  of  the 
country  if  there  were  not  a  considerable  number 
of  devoted  men  engaged  in  registering  its  fluc 
tuations  and  the  change  of  values,  and  willing  to 
back  their  opinions  by  investing  their  own  capital 
or,  more  often,  the  capital  of  others. 
201 


THAT    FORTUNE 

This  somewhat  mixed  figure  cannot  be  pursued 
further  without  losing  its  analogy,  becoming  fan 
tastic,  and  violating  natural  law.  For  it  is  matter 
of  observation  that  in  this  arena  the  pickerel,  if 
he  succeeds  in  clearing  out  the  pool,  suddenly  be 
comes  a  trout,  and  is  respected  as  the  biggest  and 
most  useful  fish  in  the  pond. 

What  is  meant  is  simply  that  Murad  Ault  was 
fighting  for  position,  and  that  for  some  reason, 
known  to  himself,  Thomas  Mavick  stood  in  his 
way.  Mr.  Mavick  had  never  been  under  the 
necessity  of  making  such  a  contest.  He  stepped 
into  a  commanding  position  as  the  manager  if 
not  the  owner  of  the  great  fortune  of  Rodney 
Henderson.  His  position  was  undisputed,  for 
the  Street  believed  with  the  world  in  the  magni 
tude  of  that  fortune,  though  there  were  shrewd 
operators  who  said  that  Mavick  had  more  chi 
cane  but  not  a  tenth  part  of  the  ability  of  Rod 
ney  Henderson.  Mr.  Ault  had  made  the  fortune 
the  object  of  keen  scrutiny,  when  his  antagonism 
was  aroused,  and  none  knew  better  than  he  its 
assailable  points.  Henderson  had  died  suddenly 
in  the  midst  of  vast  schemes  which  needed  his 
genius  to  perfect.  Apparently  the  Mavick  estate 
was  second  to  only  a  few  fortunes  in  the  country. 
Mr.  Ault  had  set  himself  to  find  out  whether 
this  vast  structure  stood  upon  rock  foundations. 
The  knowledge  he  acquired  about  it  and  his  in- 

202 


THAT    FORTUNE 

tentions  he  communicated  to  no  one.  But  the 
drift  of  his  mind  might  be  gathered  from  a  re 
mark  he  made  to  his  wife  one  day,  when  some 
social  allusion  was  made  to  Mavick :  "  I'll  bring 
down  that  snob." 

The  use  of  such  men  as  Ault  in  the  social 
structure  is  very  doubtful,  as  doubtful  as  that  of 
a  summer  tempest  or  local  cyclone,  which  it  is 
said  clears  the  air  and  removes  rubbish,  but  is  a 
scourge  that  involves  the  innocent  as  often  as  the 
guilty.  It  is  popularly  supposed  that  the  dis 
integration  and  distribution  of  a  great  fortune, 
especially  if  it  has  been  accumulated  by  doubt 
ful  methods,  is  a  benefit  to  mankind.  Mr.  Ault 
may  have  shared  this  impression,  but  it  is  un 
likely  that  he  philosophized  on  the  subject.  No 
one,  except  perhaps  his  own  family,  had  ever  dis 
covered  that  he  had  any  sensibilities  that  could 
be  appealed  to,  and,  if  he  had  known  the  ideas 
beginning  to  take  shape  in  the  mind  of  the  mill 
ionaire  heiress  in  regard  to  this  fortune,  he  would 
have  approved  or  comprehended  them  as  little 
as  did  her  mother. 

Evelyn  had  lived  hitherto  with  little  compre 
hension  of  her  peculiar  position.  That  the  world 
went  well  with  her,  and  that  no  obstacle  was 
opposed  to  the  gratification  of  her  reasonable 
desires,  or  to  her  impulses  of  charity  and  pity, 
was  about  all  she  knew  of  her  power.  But  she 
203 


THAT    FORTUNE 

was  now  eighteen  and  about  to  appear  in  the 
world.  Her  mother,  therefore,  had  been  enlight 
ening  her  in  regard  to  her  expectations  and  the 
career  that  lay  open  to  her.  And  Carmen 
thought  the  girl  a  little  perverse,  in  that  this 
prospect,  instead  of  exciting  her  worldly  am 
bition,  seemed  to  affect  her  only  seriously  as  a 
matter  of  responsibility. 

In  their  talks  Mrs.  Mavick  was  in  fact  becom 
ing  acquainted  with  the  mind  of  her  daughter, 
and  learning,  somewhat  to  her  chagrin,  the  limi 
tations  of  her  education  produced  by  the  policy 
of  isolation.  To  her  dismay,  she  found  that  the 
girl  did  not  care  much  for  the  things  that  she 
herself  cared  most  for.  The  whole  world  of  so 
ciety,  its  strifes,  ambitions,  triumphs,  defeats,  re 
wards,  did  not  seem  to  Evelyn  so  real  or  so  im 
portant  as  that  world  in  which  she  had  lived  with 
her  governess  and  her  tutors.  And,  worse  than 
this,  the  estimate  she  placed  upon  the  values  of 
material  things  was  shockingly  inadequate  to  her 
position. 

That  her  father  was  a  very  great  man  was  one 
of  the  earliest  things  Evelyn  began  to  know,  ex 
terior  to  herself.  This  was  impressed  upon  her 
by  the  deference  paid  to  him  not  only  at  home 
but  wherever  they  went,  and  by  the  deference 
shown  to  her  as  his  daughter.  And  she  was 
proud  of  this.  He  was  not  one  of  the  great  men 
204 


THAT    FORTUNE 

whose  careers  she  was  familiar  with  in  litera 
ture,  not  a  general  or  a  statesman  or  an  orator 
or  a  scientist  or  a  poet  or  a  philanthropist — she 
never  thought  of  him  in  connection  with  these 
heroes  of  her  imagination — but  he  was  certainly 
a  great  power  in  the  world.  And  she  had  for 
him  a  profound  admiration,  which  might  have 
become  affection  if  Mavick  had  ever  taken  the 
pains  to  interest  himself  in  the  child's  affairs. 
Her  mother  she  loved,  and  believed  there  could 
be  no  one  in  the  world  more  sweet  and  graceful 
and  attractive,  and  as  she  grew  up  she  yearned 
for  more  of  the  motherly  companionship,  for 
something  more  than  the  odd  moments  of  pet 
ting  that  were  given  to  her  in  the  whirl  of  the 
life  of  a  woman  of  the  world.  What  that  life 
was,  however,  she  had  only  the  dimmest  compre 
hension,  and  it  was  only  in  the  last  two  years, 
since  she  was  sixteen,  that  she  began  to  under 
stand  it,  and  that  mainly  in  contrast  to  her  own 
guarded  life.  And  she  was  now  able  to  see  that 
her  own  secluded  life  had  been  unusual. 

Not  till  long  after  this  did  she  speak  to  any 
one  of  her  experience  as  a  child,  of  the  time  when 
she  became  conscious  that  she  was  never  alone, 
and  that  she  was  only  free  to  act  within  certain 
limits.  To  McDonald,  indeed,  she  had  often 
shown  her  irritation,  and  it  was  only  the  strong 
good  sense  of  the  governess  that  kept  her  from 
205 


THAT    FORTUNE 

revolt.  It  was  not  until  very  recently  that  it 
could  be  explained  to  her,  without  putting  her 
in  terror  hourly,  why  she  must  always  be  watched 
and  guarded. 

It  had  required  all  the  tact  and  sophistry  of 
her  governess  to  make  her  acquiesce  in  a  system 
of  education — so  it  was  called — that  had  been  de 
vised  in  order  to  give  her  the  highest  and  purest 
development.  That  the  education  was  mainly 
left  to  McDonald,  and  that  her  parents  were 
simply  anxious  about  her  safety,  she  did  not 
learn  till  long  afterwards.  In  the  first  years 
Mrs.  Mavick  had  been  greatly  relieved  to  be 
spared  all  the  care  of  the  baby,  and  as  the  years 
went  on  the  arrangement  seemed  more  and  more 
convenient,  and  she  gave  little  thought  to  the 
character  that  was  being  formed.  To  Mr.  Ma 
vick,  indeed,  as  to  his  wife,  it  was  enough  to  see 
that  she  was  uncommonly  intelligent,  and  that 
she  had  a  certain  charm  that  made  her  attrac 
tive.  Mrs.  Mavick  took  it  for  granted  that  when 
it  came  time  to  introduce  her  into  the  world  she 
would  be  like  other  girls,  eager  for  its  pleasures 
and  susceptible  to  all  its  allurements.  Of  the  di 
rection  of  the  undercurrents  of  the  girl's  life  she 
had  no  conception,  until  she  began  to  unfold  to 
her  the  views  of  the  wrorld  that  prevailed  in  her 
circle,  and  what  (in  the  Carmen  scheme  of  life) 
ought  to  be  a  woman's  ambition. 
206 


THAT    FORTUNE 

That  she  was  to  be  an  heiress  Evelyn  had  long 
known,  that  she  would  one  day  have  a  great 
fortune  at  her  disposal  had  indeed  come  into  her 
serious  thought,  but  the  brilliant  use  of  it  in  re 
lation  to  herself,  at  which  her  mother  was  always 
lately  hinting,  came  to  her  as  a  disagreeable 
shock.  For  the  moment  the  fortune  seemed  to 
her  rather  a  fetter  than  an  opportunity,  if  she 
was  to  fulfil  her  mother's  expectations.  These 
hints  were  conveyed  with  all  the  tact  of  which 
her  mother  was  master,  but  the  girl  was  never 
theless  somewhat  alarmed,  and  she  began  to  re 
gard  the  "  coming  out "  as  an  entrance  into  servi 
tude  rather  than  an  enlargement  of  liberty.  One 
day  she  surprised  Miss  McDonald  by  asking  her 
if  she  didn't  think  that  rich  people  were  the  only 
ones  not  free  to  do  as  they  pleased  ? 

"Why,  my  dear,  it  is  not  generally  so  con 
sidered.  Most  people  fancy  that  if  they  had 
money  enough  they  could  do  anything." 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  said  the  girl,  putting  down 
her  stitching  and  looking  up ;  "  that  is  not  exactly 
what  I  mean.  They  can  go  in  the  current,  they 
can  do  what  they  like  with  their  money,  but  I 
mean  with  themselves.  Aren't  they  in  a  condi 
tion  that  binds  them  half  the  time  to  do  what 
they  don't  wish  to  do?" 

"  It's  a  condition  that  all  the  world  is  trying 
to  get  into." 

207 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  I  know.  I've  been  talking  with  mamma 
about  the  world  and  about  society,  and  what  is 
expected  and  what  you  must  live  up  to." 

"  But  you  have  always  known  that  you  must 
one  day  go  into  the  world  and  take  your  share 
in  life." 

"That,  yes.  But  I  would  rather  live  up  to 
myself.  Mamma  seems  to  think  that  society 
will  do  a  great  deal  for  me,  that  I  will  get  a 
wider  view  of  life,  that  I  can  do  so  much  for  so 
ciety,  and,  with  my  position,  mamma  says,  have 
such  a  career.  McDonald,  what  is  society  for?" 

That  was  such  a  poser  that  the  governess 
threw  up  her  hands,  and  then  laughed  aloud,  and 
then  shook  her  head.  "  Wiser  people  than  you 
have  asked  that  question." 

"  I  asked  mamma  that,  for  she  is  in  it  all  the 
time.  She  didn't  like  it  much,  and  asked,  i  "What 
is  anything  for?'  You  see,  McDonald,  I've  been 
with  mamma  many  a  time  when  her  friends 
came  to  see  her,  and  they  never  have  anything 
to  say,  never — what  I  call  anything.  I  wonder 
if  in  societ}^  they  go  about  saying  that?  What 
do  they  do  it  for?" 

Miss  McDonald  had  her  own  opinion  about 
what  is  called  society  and  its  occupations  and 
functions,  but  she  did  not  propose  to  encourage 
this  girl,  who  would  soon  take  her  place  in  it,  in 
such  odd  notions. 

208 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Don't  you  know,  child,  that  there  is  society 
and  society?  That  it  is  all  sorts  of  a  world,  that 
it  gets  into  groups  and  circles  about,  and  that  is 
the  way  the  world  is  stirred  up  and  kept  from 
stagnation.  And,  my  dear,  you  have  just  to  do 
your  duty  where  you  are  placed,  and  that  is  all 
there  is  about  it." 

"  Don't  be  cross,  McDonald.  I  suppose  I  can 
think  my  thoughts?" 

"  Yes,  you  can  think,  and  you  can  learn  to  keep 
a  good  deal  that  you  think  to  yourself.  Now, 
Evelyn,  haven't  you  any  curiosity  to  see  what 
this  world  we  are  talking  about  is  like?" 

"  Indeed  I  have,"  said  Evelyn,  coming  out  of 
her  reflective  mood  into  a  girlish  enthusiasm. 
"  And  I  want  to  see  what  I  shall  be  like  in  it. 
Only — well,  how  is  that?"  And  she  held  out  the 
handkerchief  she  had  been  plying  her  needle  on. 

Miss  McDonald  looked  at  the  stitches  critically, 
at  the  letters  T.M.  enclosed  in  an  oval. 

"  That  is  very  good,  not  too  mechanical.  It  will 
please  your  father.  The  oval  makes  a  pretty  ef 
fect  ;  but  what  are  those  signs  between  the  letters  ?' ' 

"  Don't  you  see  ?  It  is  a  cartouche,  and  those 
are  hieroglyphics — his  name  in  Egyptian.  I  got 
it  out  of  Petrie's  book." 

"  It  certainly  is  odd." 

"  And  every  one  of  the  twelve  is  going  to  be 
different.  It  is  so  interesting  to  hunt  up  the 
o  209 


THAT    FORTUNE 

signs  for  qualities.  If  papa  can  read  it  he  will 
find  out  a  good  deal  that  I  think  about  him." 

The  governess  only  smiled  for  reply.  It  was 
so  like  Evelyn,  so  different  from  others  even  in 
the  commonplace  task  of  marking  handkerchiefs, 
to  work  a  little  archaeology  into  her  expression 
of  family  affection. 

Mrs.  Mavick's  talks  with  her  daughter  in 
which  she  attempted  to  give  Evelyn  some  con 
ception  of  her  importance  as  the  heiress  of  a 
great  fortune,  of  her  position  in  society,  what 
would  be  expected  of  her,  and  of  the  brilliant 
social  career  her  mother  imagined  for  her,  had 
an  effect  opposite  to  that  intended.  There  had 
been  nothing  in  her  shielded  life,  provided  for  at 
every  step  without  effort,  that  had  given  her  any 
idea  of  the  value  and  importance  of  money. 

To  a  girl  in  her  position,  educated  in  the  ordi 
nary  way  and  mingling  with  school  companions, 
one  of  the  earliest  lessons  would  be  a  comprehen 
sion  of  the  power  that  wealth  gave  her ;  and  by 
the  time  that  she  was  of  Evelyn's  age  her  opinion 
of  men  would  begin  to  be  colored  by  the  notion 
that  they  were  polite  or  attentive  to  her  on  ac 
count  of  her  fortune  and  not  for  any  charm  of 
hers,  and  so  a  cruel  suspicion  of  selfishness  would 
have  entered  her  mind  to  poison  the  very  thought 
of  love. 

No  such  idea  had  entered  Evelyn's  mind.    She 

210 


THAT    FORTUNE 

would  not  readily  have  understood  that  love 
could  have  any  sort  of  relation  to  riches  or  pov 
erty.  And  if,  deep  down  in  her  heart,  not  ac 
knowledged,  scarcely  recognized,  by  herself,  there 
had  begun  to  grow  an  image  about  which  she 
had  sweet  and  tender  thoughts,  it  certainly  did 
not  occur  to  her  that  her  father's  wealth  could 
make  any  difference  in  the  relations  of  friend 
ship  or  even  of  affection.  And  as  for  the  fortune, 
if  she  was,  as  her  mother  said,  some  day  to  be 
mistress  of  it,  she  began  to  turn  over  in  her 
mind  objects  quite  different  from  the  display 
and  the  career  suggested  by  her  mother,  and  to 
think  how  she  could  use  it.  In  her  ignorance  of 
practical  life  and  of  what  the  world  generally 
values,  of  course  the  scheme  that  was  rather 
hazy  in  her  mind  was  simply  Quixotic,  as  ap 
peared  in  a  conversation  with  her  father  one 
evening  while  he  smoked  his  cigar.  He  had 
called  Evelyn  to  the  library,  on  the  suggestion 
of  Carmen  that  he  should  "have  a  little  talk 
with  the  girl." 

Mr.  Mavick  began,  when  Evelyn  was  seated 
beside  him,  and  he  had  drawn  her  close  to  him 
and  she  had  taken  possession  of  his  big  hand 
with  both  her  little  hands,  about  the  reception 
and  about  balls  to  come,  and  the  opera,  and  what 
was  going  on  in  Kew  York  generally  in  the 
season,  and  suddenly  asked  : 
211 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  My  dear,  if  you  had  a  lot  of  money,  what 
would  you  do  with  it  ?" 

"  What  would  you  ?"  said  the  girl,  looking  up 
into  his  face.  "  What  do  people  generally  do  ?" 

"  Why,"  and  Mavick  hesitated,  "  they  use  it  to 
add  more  to  it." 

"  And  then  ?"  pursued  the  girl. 

"  I  suppose  they  leave  it  to  somebody.  Sup 
pose  it  was  left  to  you?" 

"  Don't  think  me  silly,  papa ;  I've  thought  a 
lot  about  it,  and  I  shall  do  something  quite  dif 
ferent." 

"Different  from  what?" 

"  You  know  mamma  is  in  the  Orthopedic  Hos 
pital,  and  in  the  Kagged  Schools,  and  in  the  In 
firmary,  and  I  don't  know  what  all." 

"  And  wouldn't  you  help  them  ?" 

"  Of  course,  I  would  help.  But  everybody  does 
those  things,  the  practical  things,  the  charities ; 
I  mean  to  do  things  for  the  higher  life." 

Mr.  Mavick  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and 
looked  puzzled.  "You  want  to  build  a  cathe 
dral?" 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that  sort  of  higher  life,  I 
mean  civilization,  the  things  at  the  top.  I  read 
an  essay  the  other  day  that  said  it  was  easy  to 
raise  money  for  anything  mechanical  and  prac 
tical  in  a  school,  but  nobody  wanted  to  give  for 
anything  ideal." 

212 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Quite  right,"  said  her  father;  "the  world  is 
full  of  cranks.  You  seem  as  vague  as  your 
essayist." 

"  Don't  you  remember,  papa,  when  we  were  in 
Oxford  how  amused  you  were  with  the  master, 
or  professor,  who  grumbled  because  the  college 
was  full  of  students,  and  there  wasn't  a  single 
college  for  research?  I  asked  McDonald  after 
wards  what  he  meant ;  that  is  how  I  first  got  my 
idea,  but  I  didn't  see  exactly  what  it  was  until 
recently.  You've  got  to  cultivate  the  high 
things — that  essay  says — the  abstract,  that  which 
does  not  seem  practically  useful,  or  society  will 
become  low  and  material." 

"  By  George!"  cried  Mavick,  with  a  burst  of 
laughter,  "you've  got  the  lingo.  Go  on,  I  want 
to  see  where  you  are  going  to  light." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  some  more.  You  know 
my  tutor  is  English.  McDonald  says  she  believes 
he  is  the  most  learned  man  in  eighteenth-cen 
tury  literature  living,  and  his  dream  is  to  write 
a  history  of  it.  He  is  poor,  and.  engaged  all 
the  time  teaching,  and  McDonald  says  he  will 
die,  no  doubt,  and  leave  nothing  of  his  investiga 
tions  to  the  world." 

"And  you  want  to  endow  him?" 

"  He  is  only  one.  There  is  the  tutor  of  history. 
Teach,  teach,  teach,  and  no  time  or  strength  left 
for  investigation.  You  ought  to  hear  him  tell 
213 


THAT    FORTUNE 

of  the  things  just  to  be  found  out  in  American 
history.  You  see  what  I  mean?  It  is  plainer  in 
the  sciences.  The  scholars  who  could  really 
make  investigations,  and  do  something  for  the 
world,  have  to  earn  their  living  and  have  no  time 
or  means  for  experiments.  It  seems  foolish  as  I 
say  it,  but  I  do  think,  papa,  there  is  something 
in  it." 

"  And  what  would  you  do  ?" 

Evelyn  saw  that  she  was  making  no  headway, 
and  her  ideas,  exposed  to  so  practical  a  man  as 
her  father,  did  seem  rather  ridiculous.  But  she 
struck  out  boldly  with  the  scheme  that  she  had 
been  evolving. 

"  I'd  found  Institutions  of  Eesearch,  where 
there  should  be  no  teaching,  and  students  who 
had  demonstrated  that  they  had  anything  prom 
ising  in  them,  in  science,  literature,  languages, 
history,  anything,  should  have  the  means  and  the 
opportunity  to  make  investigations  and  do  work. 
See  what  a  hard  time  inventors  and  men  of  ge 
nius  have ;  it  is  pitiful." 

"  And  how  much  money  do  you  want  for  this 
modest  scheme  of  yours  ?" 

"  I  hadn't  thought,"  said  Evelyn,  patting  her 
father's  hand.  And  then,  at  a  venture,  "  I  guess 
about  ten  millions." 

"  Whew !     Have  you  any  idea  how  much  ten 
millions  are,  or  how  much  one  million  is?" 
214 


THAT    FORTUNE 

« "Why,  ten  millions,  if  you  have  a  hundred,  is 
no  more  than  one  million  if  you  have  only  ten. 
Doesn't  it  depend  ?" 

"  If  it  depends  upon  you,  child,  I  don't  think 
money  has  any  value  for  you  whatever.  You 
are  a  born  financier  for  getting  rid  of  a  surplus. 
You  ought  to  be  Secretary  of  the  Treasury." 

Mavick  rose,  lifted  up  his  daughter,  and,  kiss 
ing  her  with  more  than  usual  tenderness,  said, 
"  You'll  learn  about  the  world  in  time,"  and  bade 
her  good-night. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LAW  and  love  go  very  well  together  as  occupa 
tions,  but,  Avhen  literature  is  added,  the  trio  is 
not  harmonious.  Either  of  the  two  might  pull 
together,  but  the  combination  of  the  three  is  cer 
tainly  disastrous. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  conceive  of  a  person 
more  obviously  up  in  the  air  than  Philip  at  this 
moment.  He  went  through  his  office  duties  in 
telligently  and  perfunctorily,  but  his  heart  was 
not  in  the  work,  and  reason  as  he  would  his  ca 
reer  did  not  seem  to  be  that  way.  He  was  lured 
too  strongly  by  that  siren,  the  ever-alluring  wom 
an  who  sits  upon  the  rocks  and  sings  so  delicious- 
ly  to  youth  of  the  sweets  of  authorship.  He  who 
listens  once  to  that  song  hears  it  always  in  his 
ears,  through  disappointment  and  success — and 
the  success  is  often  the  greatest  disappointment 
— through  poverty  and  hope  deferred  and  heart- 
sickness  for  recognition,  through  the  hot  time  of 
youth  and  the  creeping  incapacity  of  old  age. 
The  song  never  ceases.  Were  the  longing  and 
the  hunger  it  arouses  ever  satisfied  with  any- 
216 


THAT    FORTUNE 

thing,  money  for  instance,  any  more  than  with 
fame? 

And  if  the  law  had  a  feeble  hold  on  him,  how 
much  more  uncertain  was  his  grasp  on  literature. 
He  had  thrown  his  line,  he  had  been  encouraged 
by  nibbles,  but  publishers  were  too  wary  to  take 
hold.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  literally  cast 
his  bread  upon  the  waters,  and  apparently  at  an 
ebb  tide,  and  his  venture  had  gone  to  the  fathom 
less  sea.  He  had  put  his  heart  into  the  story, 
and,  more  than  that,  his  hope  of  something  dear 
er  than  any  public  favor.  As  he  went  over  the 
story  in  his  mind,  scene  after  scene,  and  dwelt 
upon  the  theme  that  held  the  whole  in  unity,  he 
felt  that  Evelyn  would  be  touched  by  the  recog 
nition  of  her  part  in  the  inspiration,  and  that  the 
great  public  must  give  some  heed  to  it.  Perhaps 
not  the  great  public — for  its  liking  now  ran  in 
quite  another  direction,  but  a  considerable  num 
ber  of  people  like  Celia,  who  were  struggling 
with  problems  of  life,  and  the  Alices  in  country 
homes  who  still  preserved  in  their  souls  a  belief 
in  the  power  of  a  noble  life,  and  perhaps  some 
critics  who  had  not  rid  themselves  of  the  old 
traditions.  If  the  publishers  would  only  give 
him  a  chance ! 

But  if  law  and  literature  were  to  him  little 
more  than  unsubstantial  dreams,  the  love  he 
cherished  was,  in  the  cool  examination  of  reason, 
217 


THAT    FORTUNE 

preposterous.  "What !  the  heiress  of  so  many 
millions,  brought  up  doubtless  in  the  expecta 
tion  of  the  most  brilliant  worldly  alliance,  the 
heiress  with  the  world  presently  at  her  feet, 
would  she  look  at  a  lawyer's  clerk  and  an  unsuc 
cessful  scribbler  ?  Oh,  the  vanity  of  youth  and 
the  conceit  of  intellect ! 

Down  in  his  heart  Philip  thought  that  she 
might.  And  he  went  on  nursing  this  vain  pas 
sion,  knowing  as  well  as  any  one  can  know  the 
social  code,  that  Mr.  Mavick  and  Mrs.  Mavick 
would  simply  laugh  in  his  face  at  such  a  pre 
posterous  idea.  And  yet  he  knew  that  he  had 
her  sympathy  in  his  ambition,  that  to  a  certain 
extent  she  was  interested  in  him.  The  girl  was 
too  guileless  to  conceal  that.  And  then  suppose 
he  should  become  famous- — well,  not  exactly  fa 
mous,  but  an  author  who  was  talked  about,  and 
becoming  known,  and  said  to  be  promising  ?  And 
then  he  could  fancy  Mavick  weighing  this  sort 
of  reputation  in  his  office  scales  against  money, 
and  Mrs.  Mavick  weighing  it  in  her  boudoir 
against  social  position.  He  was  a  fool  to  think 
of  it.  And  yet,  suppose,  suppose  the  girl  should 
come  to  love  him.  It  would  not  be  lightly.  He 
knew  that,  by  looking  into  her  deep,  clear,  beau 
tiful  eyes.  There  were  in  them  determination 
and  tenacity  of  purpose  as  well  as  the  capability 
of  passion.  Heavens  and  earth,  if  that  girl  once 
218 


THAT    FORTUNE 

loved,  there  was  a  force  that  no  opposition  could 
subdue !  That  was  true.  But  what  had  he  to 
offer  to  evoke  such  a  love  ? 

In  those  days  Philip  saw  much  of  Celia,  who 
at  length  had  given  up  teaching,  and  had  come 
to  the  city  to  try  her  experiment,  into  which  she 
was  willing  to  embark  her  small  income.  She 
had  taken  a  room  in  the  midst  of  poverty  and 
misery  on  the  East  Side,  and  was  studying  the 
situation. 

"  I  am  not  certain,"  she  said,  "  whether  I  or 
any  one  else  can  do  anything,  or  whether  any 
organization  down  there  can  effect  much.  But  I 
will  find  out." 

"  Aren't  you  lonesome — and  disgusted?"  asked 
Philip. 

"  Disgusted  ?  you  might  as  well  be  disgusted 
with  one  thing  as  another.  I  am  generally  dis 
gusted  with  the  way  things  go.  But,  lonely? 
'No,  there  is  too  much  to  do  and  to  learn.  And 
do  you  know,  Philip,  that  people  are  more  in 
teresting  over  there,  more  individual,  have  more 
queer  sorts  of  character.  I  begin  to  believe, 
with  a  lovely  philanthropist  I  know,  who  had 
charge  of  female  criminals,  that i  wicked  women 
are  more  interesting  than  good  women.5 " 

"You  have  struck  a  rich  mine  of  interest  in 
New  York,  then." 

"Don't  be  cynical,  Phil.     There  are  different 

219 


THAT    FORTUNE 

kinds  of  interest.  Stuff!  But  I  won't  explain." 
And  then,  abruptly  changing  the  subject,  "  Seems 
to  me  you  have  something  on  your  mind  lately. 
Is  it  the  novel?" 

"  Perhaps." 

"The  publishers  haven't  decided?" 

"  I  am  afraid  they  have." 

"  Well,  Philip,  do  you  know  that  I  think  the 
best  thing  that  could  happen  to  you  would  be  to 
have  the  story  rejected." 

"It  has  been  rejected  several  times,"  said 
Philip.  "  That  didn't  seem  to  do  me  any  good." 

"  But  finally,  so  that  you  would  stop  thinking 
about  it,  stop  expecting  anything  that  way,  and 
take  up  your  profession  in  earnest." 

"You  are  a  nice  comforter!"  retorted  Philip, 
with  a  sort  of  smirking  grin  and  a  look  of  keen 
inspection,  as  if  he  saw  something  new  in  the 
character  of  his  adviser.  "  What  has  come  over 
you?  Suppose  I  should  give  you  that  sort  of 
sympathy  in  the  projects  you  set  your  heart  on?" 

"It  does  seem  hard  and  mean,  doesn't  it?  I 
knew  you  wouldn't  like  it.  That  is,  not  now. 
But  it  is  for  your  lifetime.  As  for  me,  I've 
wanted  so  many  things  and  I've  tried  so  many 
things.  And  do  you  know,  Phil,  that  I  have 
about  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  best  things 
for  us  in  this  world  are  the  things  we  don't 
get." 

220 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  You  are  always  coming  to  some  new  conclu 
sion." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  just  look  at  it  rationally. 
Suppose  your  story  is  published,  cast  into  the 
sea  of  new  books,  and  has  a  very  fair  sale.  What 
will  you  get  out  of  it?  You  can  reckon  how 
many  copies  at  ten  cents  a  copy  it  will  need  to 
make  as  much  as  some  writers  get  for  a  trivial 
magazine  paper.  Recognition?  Yes,  from  a  very 
few  people.  Notoriety  ?  You  would  soon  find 
what  that  is.  Suppose  you  make  what  is  called 
a  '  hit.'  If  you  did  not  better  that  with  the  next 
book,  you  would  be  called  a  failure.  And  you 
must  keep  at  it,  keep  giving  the  public  some 
thing  new  all  the  time,  or  you  will  drop  out  of 
sight.  And  then  the  anxiety  and  the  strain  of 
it,  and  the  temptation,  because  you  must  live,  to 
lower  your  ideal,  and  go  down  to  what  you  con 
ceive  to  be  the  buying  public.  And  if  your  story 
does  not  take  the  popular  fancy,  where  will  you 
be  then?" 

"  Celia,  you  have  become  a  perfect  materialist. 
You  don't  allow  anything  for  the  joy  of  creation, 
for  the  impulse  of  a  man's  mind,  for  the  delight 
in  fighting  for  a  place  in  the  world  of  letters." 

"  So  it  seems  to  you  now.  If  you  have  any 
thing  that  must  be  said,  of  course  you  ought  to 
say  it,  no  matter  what  comes  after.  If  you  are 
looking  round  for  something  you  can  say  in 
221 


THAT  FORTUNP: 

order  to  get  the  position  you  covet,  that  is  an 
other  thing.  People  so  deceive  themselves  about 
this.  I  know  literary  workers  who  lead  a  dog's 
life  and  are  slaves  to  their  pursuit,  simply  be 
cause  they  have  deceived  themselves  in  this.  I 
want  you  to  be  free  and  independent,  to  live 
your  own  life  and  do  what  work  you  can  in  the 
world.  There,  I've  said  it,  and  of  course  you 
will  go  right  on.  I  know  you.  And  maybe  I 
am  all  wrong.  When  I  see  the  story  I  may  take 
the  other  side  and  urge  you  to  go  on,  even  if  you 
are  as  poor  as  a  church-mouse,  and  have  to  be 
under  the  harrow  of  poverty  for  years." 

"Then  you  have  some  curiosity  to  see  the 
story  ?" 

"  You  know  I  have.  And  I  know  I  shall  like 
it.  It  isn't  that,  Phil ;  it  is  what  is  the  happiest 
career  for  you." 

"  Well,  I  will  send  it  to  you  when  it  comes 
back." 

But  the  unexpected  happened.  It  did  not 
come  back.  One  morning  Philip  received  a  let 
ter  from  the  publishers  that  set  his  head  in  a 
whirl.  The  story  was  accepted.  The  publisher 
wrote  that  the  verdict  of  the  readers  was  favor 
able,  and  he  would  venture  on  it,  though  he 
cautioned  Mr.  Burnett  not  to  expect  a  great  com 
mercial  success.  And  he  added,  as  to  terms,  it 
being  a  new  name,  though  he  hoped  one  that 
222 


THAT    FORTUNE 

would  become  famous,  that  the  copyright  of  ten 
per  cent,  would  not  begin  until  after  the  sale  of 
the  first  thousand  copies. 

The  latter  part  of  the  letter  made  no  impres 
sion  on  Philip.  So  long  as  the  book  was  pub 
lished,  and  by  a  respectable  firm,  he  was  indiffer 
ent  as  a  lord  to  the  ignoble  details  of  royalty. 
The  publisher  had  recognized  the  value  of  the 
book,  and  it  was  accepted  on  its  merits.  That 
was  enough.  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  en 
close  the  letter  to  Celia,  with  the  simple  remark 
that  he  would  try  to  sympathize  with  her  in  her 
disappointment. 

Philip  would  have  been  a  little  less  jubilant  if 
he  had  known  how  the  decision  of  the  publish 
ing  house  was  arrived  at.  It  was  true  that  the 
readers  had  reported  favorably,  but  had  refused 
to  express  any  opinion  on  the  market  value.  The 
manuscript  had  therefore  been  put  in  the  grave 
yard  of  manuscripts,  from  which  there  is  com 
monly  no  resurrection  except  in  the  funeral  prog 
ress  of  the  manuscript  back  to  the  author.  But 
the  head  of  the  house  happened  to  dine  at  the 
house  of  Mr.  Hunt,  the  senior  of  Philip's  law 
firm.  Some  chance  allusion  was  made  by  a  lady 
to  an  article  in  a  recent  magazine  which  had 
pleased  her  more  than  anything  she  had  seen 
lately.  Mr.  Hunt  also  had  seen  it,  for  his  wife 
had  insisted  on  reading  it  to  him,  and  he  was 

223 


THAT    FORTUNE 

proud  to  say  that  the  author  was  a  clerk  in  his 
office — a  fine  fellow,  who,  he  always  fancied,  had 
more  taste  for  literature  than  for  law,  but  he 
had  the  stuff  in  him  to  succeed  in  anything. 
The  publisher  pricked  up  his  ears  and  asked  some 
questions.  He  found  that  Mr.  Burnett  stood 
well  in  the  most  prominent  law  firm  in  the  city, 
that  ladies  of  social  position  recognized  his  talent, 
that  he  dined  here  and  there  in  a  good  set,  and 
that  he  belonged  to  one  of  the  best  clubs.  When 
he  went  to  his  office  the  next  morning  he  sent 
for  the  manuscript,  looked  it  over  critically,  and 
then  announced  to  his  partners  that  he  thought 
the  thing  was  worth  trying. 

In  a  day  or  two  it  was  announced  in  the  ad 
vertising  lists  as  forthcoming.  There  it  stared 
Philip  in  the  face  and  seemed  to  be  the  only 
conspicuous  thing  in  the  journal.  He  had  not 
paid  much  attention  before  to  the  advertise 
ments,  but  now  this  department  seemed  the  most 
interesting  part  of  the  paper,  and  he  read  every 
announcement,  and  then  came  back  and  read  his 
over  and  over.  There  it  stood : — "  On  Saturday, 
The  Puritan  Nun.  An  Idyl.  By  Philip  Bur 
nett." 

The  naming  of  the  book  had  been  almost  as 
difficult  as  the  creation.  His  first  choice  had  been 
"  The  Lily  of  the  Valley,"  but  Balzac  had  pre 
empted  that.  And  then  he  had  thought  of  "  The 
224 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Enclosed  Garden  "  (Ilortus  Clausus),  the  title  of 
a  lovely  picture  he  had  seen.  That  was  Biblical, 
but  in  the  present  ignorance  of  the  old  scriptures 
it  would  be  thought  either  agricultural  or  senti 
mental.  It  is  not  uncommon  that  a  book  owes 
its  notoriety  and  sale  to  its  title,  and  it  is  not 
easy  to  find  a  title  that  will  attract  attention, 
without  being  too  sensational.  The  title  chosen 
was  paradoxical,  for  while  a  nun  might  be  a 
puritan,  it  was  unthinkable  that  a  Puritan  should 
be  a  nun.  Mr.  Brad  said  he  liked  it,  because  it 
looked  well  and  did  not  mean  anything ;  he  liked 
all  such  titles,  the  "  Pious  Pirate,"  the  "  Lucid 
Lunatic,"  the  "  Sympathetic  Siren,"  the  "  Guile 
less  Girl,"  and  so  on. 

The  announcement  of  publication  had  the  effect 
of  putting  Philip  in  high  spirits  for  the  Mavick 
reception — spirits  tempered,  however,  by  the  em 
barrassment  natural  to  a  modest  man  that  he 
would  be  painfully  conspicuous.  This  first  pla 
carding  of  one's  name  is  a  peculiar  and  mixed 
sensation.  The  letters  seem  shamefully  naked, 
and  the  owner  seems  exposed  and  to  have  parted 
with  a  considerable  portion  of  his  innate  privacy. 
His  first  fancy  is  that  everybody  will  see  it.  But 
this  fancy  only  comes  once.  With  experience  he 
comes  to  doubt  if  anybody  except  himself  will 
see  it. 

To  those  most  concerned  the  Mavick  reception 


THAT    FORTUNE 

was  the  event  of  a  lifetime.  To  the  town — that 
is,  to  a  thousand  or  two  persons  occupjdng  in 
their  own  eyes  an.  exclusive  position — it  was  one 
of  the  events  of  the  season,  and,  indeed,  it  was  the 
sensation  for  a  couple  of  days.  The  historian  of 
social  life  formerly  had  put  upon  him  the  task  of 
painfully  describing  all  that  went  to  make  such 
an  occasion  brilliant — the  house  itself,  the  deco 
rations,  the  notable  company,  men  distinguished 
in  the  State  or  the  Street,  women  as  remarkable 
for  their  beauty  as  for  their  courage  in  its  exhi 
bition,  the  whole  world  of  fashion  and  of  splen 
did  extravagance  upon  which  the  modiste  and 
the  tailor  could  look  with  as  much  pride  as  the 
gardener  does  upon  a  show  of  flowers  which  his 
genius  has  brought  to  perfection. 

The  historian  has  no  longer  this  responsibility. 
It  is  transferred  to  a  kind  of  trust.  A  race  of 
skilful  artists  has  arisen,  who,  in  combination 
with  the  caterers,  the  decorators,  and  the  milli 
ners,  produce  a  composite  piece  of  literature  in 
which  all  details  are  woven  into  a  splendid 
whole — a  composition  rhetorical,  humorous,  lyr 
ical,  a  noble  apotheosis  of  wealth  and  beauty 
which  carefully  satisfies  individual  vanity  and 
raises  in  the  mind  a  noble  picture  of  modern 
civilization.  The  pen  and  the  pencil  contribute 
to  this  splendid  result  in  the  daily  chronicle  of 
our  life.  Those  who  are  not  present  are  really 
226 


THAT    FORTUNE 

witnesses  of  the  scene,  and  this  pictorial  and  lit 
erary  triumph  is  justified  in  the  fact  that  no  other 
effort  of  the  genius  of  reproduction  is  so  eagerly 
studied  by  the  general  public.  Not  only  in  the 
city,  but  in  the  remote  villages,  these  accounts  are 
perused  with  interest,  and  it  must  be  taken  as  an 
evidence  of  the  new  conception  of  the  duties  of 
the  favored  of  fortune  to  the  public  pleasure  that 
the  participants  in  these  fetes  overcome,  though 
reluctantly,  their  objection  to  notoriety. 

No  other  people  in  the  world  are  so  hospitable 
as  the  Americans,  and  so  willing  to  incur  discom 
fort  in  showing  hospitality.  No  greater  proof 
of  this  can  be  needed  than  the  effort  to  give 
princely  entertainments  in  un- princely  houses, 
where  opposing  streams  of  guests  fight  for  prog 
ress  in  scant  passages  and  on  narrow  stairways, 
and  pack  themselves  in  stifling  rooms.  The  Ma- 
vick  house,  it  should  be  said,  was  perfectly  adapted 
to  the  throng  that  seemed  to  fill  but  did  not 
crowd  it.  The  spacious  halls,  the  noble  stair 
ways,  the  ample  drawing-rooms,  the  ball-room, 
the  music-room,  the  library,  the  picture-gallery, 
the  dining-room,  the  conservatory — into  these  the 
crowd  flowed  or  lingered  without  confusion  or 
annoyance  and  in  a  continual  pleasure  of  sur 
prise.  "  The  best  point  of  view,"  said  an  artist 
of  Philip's  acquaintance,  "  is  just  here."  They 
were  standing  in  the  great  hall  looking  up  at  that 


THAT    FORTUNE 

noble  gallery  from  which  flowed  down  on  either 
hand  a  broad  stairway.  "  I  didn't  know  there 
was  so  much  beauty  in  New  York.  It  never  be 
fore  had  such  an  opportunity  to  display  itself. 
There  is  room  for  the  exhibition  of  the  most 
elaborate  toilettes,  and  the  costumes  really  look 
regal  in  such  a  setting." 

When  Philip  was  shown  to  the  dressing-room, 
conscious  that  the  servant  was  weighing  him 
lightly  in  the  social  scale  on  account  of  his 
early  arrival,  he  found  a  few  men  who  were  wait 
ing  to  make  their  appearance  more  seasonable. 
They  were  young  men,  who  had  the  air  of  being 
bored  by  this  sort  of  thing,  and  greeted  each 
other  with  a  look  of  courteous  surprise,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "Hello!  you  here?"  One  of  them, 
whom  Philip  knew  slightly,  who  had  the  reputa 
tion  of  being  the  distributer  if  not  the  fountain 
of  social  information,  and  had  the  power  of  at 
tracting  gossip  as  a  magnet  does  iron  tilings,  gave 
Philip  much  valuable  information  concerning  the 
function. 

"  Mrs.  Mavick  has  done  it  this  time.  Every 
body  has  tumbled  in.  Washington  is  drained  of 
its  foreign  diplomats,  the  heavy  part  of  the  cab 
inet  is  moved  over  to  represent  the  President,  who 
sent  a  gracious  letter,  the  select  from  Boston,  the 
most  ancient  from  Philadelphia,  and  I  know  that 
Chicago  comes  in  a  special  train.  Oh,  it's  the 
228 


THAT    FORTUNE 

thing.  I  assure  you  there  was  a  scramble  for 
invitations  in  the  city.  Lots  of  visiting  nobility 
— Count  de  1'Auney,  I  know,  and  that  little 
snob,  Lord  Montague." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Lord  Crewe  Monmouth  Fitzwilliam,  the 
Marquis  of  Montague,  eldest  son  of  the  Duke  of 
Tewksbury.  He's  a  daisy.  They  say  he  is  over 
here  looking  for  capital  to  carry  on  his  peer  busi 
ness  when  he  comes  into  it.  Don't  know  who 
put  up  the  money  for  the  trip.  These  foreigners 
keep  a  sharp  eye  on  our  market,  I  can  tell  you. 
They  say  she  is  a  nice  little  girl,  rather  a  blue 
stocking,  face  rather  intelligent  than  pretty,  but 
Montague  won't  care  for  that — excuse  the  old 
joke,  but  it  is  the  figure  Monte  is  after.  He 
hasn't  any  manners,  but  he's  not  a  bad  sort  of 
a  fellow,  generally  good-natured,  immensely 
pleased  Avith  New  York,  and  an  enthusiastic 
connoisseur  in  club  drinks." 

At  the  proper  hour — the  hour,  it  came  into 
his  mind,  when  the  dear  ones  at  Rivervale  had 
been  long  in  sleep,  lulled  by  the  musical  flow  of 
the  Deerfield — Philip  made  his  way  to  the  recep 
tion-room,  where  there  actually  was  some  press 
of  a  crowd,  in  lines,  to  approach  the  attraction 
of  the  evening,  and  as  he  waited  his  turn  he  had 
leisure  to  observe  the  brilliant  scene.  There  was 
scarcely  a  person  in  the  room  he  knew.  One  or 
229 


THAT    FORTUNE 

two  ladies  gave  him  a  preoccupied  nod,  a  plain 
little  woman  whom  he  had  talked  with  about 
books  at  a  recent  dinner  smiled  upon  him  en 
couragingly.  But  what  specially  impressed  him 
at  the  moment  was  the  seriousness  of  the  func 
tion,  the  intentness  upon  the  presentation,  and 
the  look  of  worry  on  the  faces  of  the  women  in 
arranging  trains  and  avoiding  catastrophes. 

As  he  approached  he  fancied  that  Mr.  Mavick 
looked  weary  and  bored,  and  that  a  shade  of  ab 
straction  occasionally  came  over  his  face  as  if  it 
were  difficult  to  keep  his  thoughts  on  the  chang 
ing  line.  But  his  face  lighted  up  a  little  when 
he  took  Philip's  hand  and  exchanged  with  him 
the  commonplaces  of  the  evening.  But  before 
this  he  had  to  wait  a  moment,  for  he  was  pre 
ceded  by  an  important  personage.  A  dapper  lit 
tle  figure,  trim,  neat,  at  the  moment  drew  him 
self  up  before  Mrs.  Mavick,  brought  his  heels 
together  with  a  click,  and  made  a  low  bow. 
Doubtless  this  was  the  French  count.  Mrs.  Ma 
vick  was  radiant.  Philip  had  never  seen  her  in 
such  spirits  or  so  fascinating  in  manner. 

"It  is  a  great  honor,  count." 

"  It  ees  to  me,"  said  the  count,  with  a  marked 
accent ;  "  I  assure  you  it  is  like  Paris  in  ze  time  of 
ze  monarchy.  Ah,  ze  Great  Republic,  madame 
— so  it  was  in  France  in  ze  ancien  regime.  Ah, 
mademoiselle!  Permit  me,"  and  he  raised  her 

230 


THAT    FORTUNE 

hand  to  his  lips;  "I  salute — is  it  not"  (turning 
to  Mrs.  Mavick) — "  ze  princess  of  ze  house  ?" 

The  next  man  who  shook  hands  with  the  host, 
and  then  stood  in  an  easy  attitude  before  the 
hostess,  attracted  Philip's  attention  strongly,  for 
he  fancied  from  the  deference  shown  him  it  must 
be  the  lord  of  whom  he  had  heard.  He  was  a 
short,  little  man,  with  heavy  limbs  and  a  clumsy 
figure,  reddish  hair,  very  thin  on  the  crown, 
small  eyes  that  were  not  improved  in  expression 
by  white  eyebrows,  a  red  face,  smooth  shaven 
and  freckled.  It  might  have  been  the  face  of  a 
hostler  or  a  billiard-marker. 

"  I  am  delighted,  my  lord,  that  you  could  make 
room  in  your  engagements  to  come." 

"  Ah,  Mrs.  Mavick,  I  wouldn't  have  missed 
it,"  said  my  lord,  with  easy  assurance ;  "  I'd  have 
thrown  over  anything  to  have  come.  And,  do 
you  know  "  (looking  about  him  coolly),  "  it's  quite 
English,  'pon  my  honor,  quite  English — St.  James 
and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  You  flatter  me,  my  lord,"  replied  the  lady  of 
the  house,  with  a  winning  smile. 

"  No,  I  do  assure  you,  it's  bang  -  up.  Ah, 
Miss  Mavick,  delighted,  delighted.  Most  charm 
ing.  Lucky  for  me,  wasn't  it?  I'm  just  in 
time." 

"  You've  only  recently  come  over,  Lord  Mon 
tague?"  asked  Evelyn. 

231 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Been  here  before — Rockies,  shooting,  all  that. 
Just  arrived  now — beastly  trip,  beastly." 

"  And  so  you  were  glad  to  land  ?" 

"  Glad  to  land  anywhere.  But  New  York  suits 
me  down  to  the  ground.  It  goes,  as  you  say 
over  here.  You  know  Paris?" 

"  We  have  been  in  Paris.     You  prefer  it  ?" 

"  For  some  things.  Paris  as  it  was  in  the  Em 
pire.  For  sport,  no.  For  horses,  no.  And" 
(looking  boldly  into  her  face)  "  when  you  speak 
of  American  women,  Paris  ain't  in  it,  as  you 
say  over  here." 

And  the  noble  lord,  instead  of  passing  on, 
wheeled  about  and  took  a  position  near  Evelyn, 
so  that  he  could  drop  his  valuable  observations 
into  her  ear  as  occasion  offered. 

To  Philip  Mrs.  Mavick  was  civil,  but  she  did 
not  beam  upon  him,  and  she  did  not  detain  him 
longer  than  to  say,  "  Glad  to  see  you."  But 
Evelyn — could  Philip  be  deceived? — she  gave 
him  her  hand  cordially  and  looked  into  his  eyes 
trustfully,  as  she  had  the  habit  of  doing  in  the 
country,  and  as  if  it  were  a  momentary  relief  to 
her  to  encounter  in  all  this  parade  a  friend. 

"I  need  not  say  that  I  am  glad  you  could 
come.  And  oh"  (there  was  time  only  for  a  word), 
"  I  saw  the  announcement.  Later,  if  you  can,  you 
will  tell  me  more  about  it." 

Lord  Montague  stared  at  him  as  if  to  say, 

282 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Who  the  deuce  are  you?"  and  as  Philip  met  his 
gaze  he  thought,  "  No,  he  hasn't  the  manner  of  a 
stable  boy ;  no  one  but  a  born  nobleman  could 
be  so  confident  with  women  and  so  supercilious 
to  men." 

But  my  lord  was  little  in  his  thought.  It  was 
the  face  of  Evelyn  that  he  saw,  and  the  dainty 
little  figure ;  the  warmth  of  the  little  hand  still 
thrilled  him.  So  simple,  and  only  a  bunch  of 
violets  in  her  corsage  for  all  ornament !  The 
clear,  dark  complexion,  the  sweet  mouth,  the 
wonderful  eyes  !  What  could  Jenks  mean  by  in 
timating  that  she  was  plain? 

Philip  drifted  along  with  the  crowd.  He  was 
very  much  alone.  And  he  enjoyed  his  solitude. 
A  word  and  a  smile  now  and  then  from  an  ac 
quaintance  did  not  tempt  him  to  come  out  of 
his  seclusion.  The  gay  scene  pleased  him.  He 
looked  for  a  moment  into  the  ball-room.  At 
another  time  he  would  have  tried  his  fortune  in 
the  whirl.  But  now  he  looked  on  as  at  a  spec 
tacle  from  which  he  was  detached.  He  had  had 
his  moment  and  he  waited  for  another.  The 
voluptuous  music,  the  fascinating  toilettes,  the 
beautiful  faces,  the  graceful  forms  that  were 
woven  together  in  this  shifting  kaleidoscope, 
were,  indeed,  a  part  of  his  beautiful  dream.  But 
how  unreal  they  all  were !  There  was  no  doubt 
that  Evelyn's  eyes  had  kindled  for  him  as  for  no 

233 


THAT    FORTUNE 

one  else  whom  she  had  greeted.  She  singled  him 
out  in  all  this  crush,  her  look,  the  cordial  press 
ure  of  her  hand,  conveyed  the  feeling  of  com 
radeship  and  understanding.  This  was  enough 
to  fill  his  thought  with  foolish  anticipations.  Is 
there  any  being  quite  so  happy,  quite  so  stupid, 
as  a  lover?  A  lover,  who  hopes  everything  and 
fears  everything,  who  goes  in  an  instant  from  the 
heights  of  bliss  to  the  depths  of  despair. 

"When  the  "  reception  "  was  over  and  the  com 
pany  was  breaking  up  into  groups  and  moving 
about,  Philip  again  sought  Evelyn.  But  she  was 
the  centre  of  a  somewhat  noisy  group,  and  it 
wras  not  easy  to  join  it.  Yet  it  was  something 
that  he  could  feast  his  eyes  on  her  and  was  re 
warded  by  a  look  now  and  then  that  told  him 
she  was  conscious  of  his  presence.  Encouraged 
by  this,  he  was  making  his  way  to  her,  when 
there  was  a  movement  towards  the  supper-room, 
and  Mrs.  Mavick  had  taken  the  arm  of  the  Count 
de  1'Auney,  and  the  little  lord  was  jauntily  lead 
ing  away  Evelyn.  Philip  had  a  pang  of  disgust 
and  jealousy.  Evelyn  was  actually  chatting 
with  him  and  seemed  amused.  Lord  Montague 
was  evidently  laying  himself  out  to  please  and 
exerting  all  the  powers  of  his  subtle  humor  and 
exploiting  his  newly  acquired  slang.  That  Philip 
could  hear  as  they  moved  past  him.  "  The  brute !" 
Philip  said  to  himself,  with  the  injustice  which 
234 


THAT    FORTUNE 

always  clouds  the  estimate  of  a  lover  of  a  rival 
whose  accomplishments  differ  from  his  own. 

In  the  supper-room,  however,  in  the  confusion 
and  crowding  of  it,  Philip  at  length  found  his 
opportunity  to  get  to  the  side  of  Evelyn,  whose 
smile  showed  him  that  he  was  welcome.  It  was 
in  that  fortunate  interval  when  Lord  Montague 
was  showing  that  devotion  to  women  was  not 
incompatible  with  careful  attention  to  terrapin 
and  champagne.  Philip  was  at  once  inspired  to 
say: 

"  How  lovely  it  is !     Aren't  you  tired  3" 

"Not  at  all.  Everybody  is  very  kind,  and 
some  are  very  amusing.  I  am  learning  a  great 
deal,"  and  there  was  a  quizzical  look  in  her  eyes, 
"  about  the  world." 

"Well,"  said  Philip,  "it's  all  here." 

"  I  suppose  so.  But  do  you  know,"  and  there 
was  quite  an  ingenuous  blush  in  her  cheeks  as 
she  said  it,  "  it  isn't  half  so  nice,  Mr.  Burnett,  as 
a  picnic  in  Zoar." 

"So  you  remember  that?"  Philip  had  not 
command  of  himself  enough  not  to  attempt  the 
sentimental. 

"  You  must  think  I  have  a  weak  memory,"  she 
replied,  with  a  laugh.  "  And  the  story?  When 
shall  we  have  it  2" 

"  Soon,  I  hope.  And,  Miss  Mavick,  I  owe  so 
much  of  it  to  you  that  I  hope  you  will  let 
235 


THAT    FORTUNE 

me  send  you  the  very  first  copy  from  the 
press." 

"  Will  you  ?  And  do  you —  Of  course  I  shall 
be  pleased  and"  (making  him  a  little  curtsy) 
u  honored,  as  one  ought  to  say  in  this  company." 

Lord  Montague  was  evidently  getting  uneasy, 
for  his  attention  was  distracted  from  the  occupa 
tion  of  feeding. 

"  No,  don't  go.  Lord  Montague,  an  old  friend, 
Mr.  Burnett." 

"  Much  pleased,"  said  his  lordship,  looking 
round  rather  inquiringly  at  the  intruder.  "I 
can't  say  much  for  the  champagne — ah,  not  bad, 
you  know — but  I  always  said  that  your  terrapin 
isn't  half  so  nasty  as  it  looks."  And  his  lordship 
laughed  most  good-humoredly,  as  if  he  were  pay 
ing  the  American  nation  a  deserved  compliment. 

"  Yes,"  said  Philip,  "  we  have  to  depend  upon 
France  for  the  champagne,  but  the  terrapin  is 
native." 

"  Quite  so,  and  devilish  good !  That  ain't 
bad,  'depend  upon  France  for  the  champagne!' 
There  is  nothing  like  your  American  humor, 
Miss  Mavick." 

"  It  needs  an  Englishman  to  appreciate  it,"  re 
plied  Evelyn,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes  which 
was  lost  upon  her  guest. 

In  the  midst  of  these  courtesies  Philip  bowed 
himself  away.  The  party  was  over  for  him, 
236 


THAT    FORTUNE 

though  he  wandered  about  for  a  while,  was  at 
tracted  again  by  the  music  to  the  ball-room,  and 
did  find  there  a  dinner  acquaintance  with  whom 
he  took  a  turn.  The  lady  must  have  thought 
him  a  very  uninteresting  or  a  very  absent-minded 
companion. 

As  for  Lord  Montague,  after  he  had  what  he 
called  a  "go"  in  the  dancing-room,  he  found  his 
way  back  to  the  buffet  in  the  supper-room,  and 
the  historian  says  that  he  greatly  enjoyed  him 
self,  and  was  very  amusing,  and  that  he  culti 
vated  the  friendship  of  an  obliging  waiter  early 
in  the  morning,  who  conducted  his  lordship  to 
his  cab. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  morning  after  The  Puritan  Nun  was 
out,  as  Philip  sat  at  his  office  desk,  conscious 
that  the  eyes  of  the  world  were  on  him,  Mr.  Ma- 
vick  entered,  bowed  to  him  absent-mindedly,  and 
was  shown  into  Mr.  Hunt's  room. 

Philip  had  dreaded  to  come  to  the  office  that 
morning  and  encounter  the  inquisition  and  per 
haps  the  compliments  of  his  fellow-clerks.  He 
had  seen  his  name  in  staring  capitals  in  the  book 
seller's  window  as  he  came  down,  and  he  felt 
that  it  was  shamefully  exposed  to  the  public 
gaze,  and  that  everybody  had  seen  it.  The 
clerks,  however,  gave  no  sign  that  the  event  had 
disturbed  them.  He  had  encountered  many  peo 
ple  he  knew  on  the  street,  but  there  had  been  no 
recognition  of  his  leap  into  notoriety.  Not  a  fel 
low  in  the  club,  where  he  had  stopped  a  moment, 
had  treated  him  with  any  increased  interest  or 
deference.  In  the  office  only  one  person  seemed 
aware  of  his  extraordinary  good  fortune.  Mr. 
T  \veedle had  come  to  the  desk  and  offered  his  hand 
in  his  usual  conciliatory  and  unctuous  manner. 
238 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  I  see  by  the  paper,  Mr.  Burnett,  that  we  are 
an  author.  Let  me  congratulate  you.  Mrs. 
T  \veedle  told  me  nofe  to  come  home  without 
bringing  your  story.  Who  publishes  it  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  much  honored,"  said  Philip,  blush 
ing,  "  if  Mrs.  Tweedle  will  accept  a  copy  from 
me." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,  Mr.  Burnett ;  but,  of 
course,  gift  of  the  author — Mrs.  Tweedle  will  be 
very  much  pleased." 

In  half  an  hour  Mr.  Mavick  came  out,  passed 
him  without  recognition,  and  hurried  from  the 
office,  and  Philip  was  summoned  to  Mr.  Hunt's 
room. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  to  Washington  immediate 
ly,  Mr.  Burnett.  Return  by  the  night  train. 
You  can  do  without  your  grip?  Take  these 
papers  to  Buckston  Higgins — you  see  the  address 
— who  represents  the  British  Argentine  syndi 
cate.  Wait  till  he  reads  them  and  get  his  reply. 
Here  is  the  money  for  the  trip.  Oh,  after  Mr. 
Higgins  writes  his  answer,  ask  him  if  you  can 
telegraph  me  c  yes '  or  <  no.'  Good-morning." 

While  Philip  was  speeding  to  Washington,  an 
important  conference  was  taking  place  in  Murad 
Ault's  office.  He  was  seated  at  his  desk,  and  be 
fore  him  lay  two  despatches,  one  from  Chicago 
and  a  cable  from  London.  Opposite  him,  lean 
ing  forward  in  his  chair,  was  a  lean,  hatchet- faced 
239 


THAT    FORTUNE 

man,  with  keen  eyes  and  aquiline  nose,   who 
watched  his  old  curb-stone  confidant  like  a  cat. 

"  I  tell  you,  Wheatstone,"  said  Mr.  Ault,  with 
an  unmoved  face,  bringing  his  fist  down  on 
the  table,  "  now  is  the  time  to  sell  these  three 
stocks." 

"  Why,"  said  Mr.  Wheatstone,  with  a  look  of 
wonder,  "they  are  about  the  strongest  on  the 
list.  Mavick  controls  them." 

"  Does  he  ?"  said  Ault.  "  Then  he  can  take 
care  of  them." 

"  Have  you  any  news,  Mr.  Ault  ?" 

"Nothing  to  speak  of,"  replied  Ault,  grimly. 
"  It  just  looks  so  to  me.  All  you've  got  to  do  is 
to  sell.  Make  a  break  this  afternoon,  about  two 
or  three  points  off." 

"  They  are  too  strong,"  protested  Mr.  Wheat- 
stone. 

"  That  is  just  the  reason.  Everybody  will 
think  something  must  be  the  matter,  or  nobody 
would  be  fool  enough  to  sell.  You  keep  your 
eye  on  the  Spectrum  this  afternoon  and  to-mor 
row  morning.  About  Organization  and  one  or 
two  other  matters." 

"  Ah,  they  do  say  that  Mavick  is  in  Argentine 
up  to  his  neck,"  said  the  broker,  beginning  to  be 
enlightened. 

"Is  he ?  Then  you  think  he  would  rather  sell 
than  buy  ?" 

240 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Mr.  "Wheatstone  laughed  and  looked  admiring 
ly  at  his  leader.  "  He  may  have  to." 

Mr.  Ault  took  up  the  cable  cipher  and  read  it 
to  himself  again.  If  Mr.  Hunt  had  known  its 
contents  he  need  not  have  waited  for  Philip  to 
telegraph  "  no  "  from  Washington. 

"  It's  all  right,  Wheatstone.  It's  the  biggest 
thing  you  ever  struck.  Pitch  'em  overboard  in 
the  morning.  The  Street  is  shaky  about  Argen 
tine.  There'll  be  h —  to  pay  before  half  past 
twelve.  I  guess  you  can  safely  go  ten  points. 
Lower  yet,  if  Mavick's  brokers  begin  to  unload. 
I  guess  he  will  have  to — unless  he  can  borrow. 
Rumor  is  a  big  thing,  especially  in  a  panic,  eh  ? 
Keep  your  eye  peeled.  And,  oh,  won't  you  ask 
Babcock  to  step  round  here  ?" 

Mr.  Babcock  came  round,  and  had  his  instruc 
tions  when  to  buy.  He  had  the  reputation  of 
being  a  reckless  broker,  and  not  a  safe  man  to 
follow. 

The  panic  next  day,  both  in  London  and  New 
York,  was  long  remembered.  In  the  unreason 
ing  scare  the  best  stocks  were  sacrificed.  Small 
country  "  investors  "  lost  their  stakes.  Some  op 
erators  were  ruined.  Many  men  were  poorer  at 
the  end  of  the  scrimmage,  and  a  few  were  richer. 
Murad  Ault  was  one  of  the  latter.  Mavick  pulled 
through,  though  at  an  enormous  cost,  and  with 
some  diminution  of  the  notion  of  his  solidity. 
Q  241 


THAT    FORTUNE 

The  wise  ones  suspected  that  his  resources  had 
been  overestimated,  or  that  they  were  not  so  well 
at  his  command  as  had  been  supposed. 

When  he  went  home  that  night  he  looked  five 
years  older,  and  was  too  worn  and  jaded  to  be 
civil  to  his  family.  The  dinner  passed  mostly  in 
silence.  Carmen  saw  that  something  serious  had 
happened.  Lord  Montague  had  called. 

"  Eh,  what  did  he  want  ?"  said  Mavick,  surlily. 

Carmen  looked  up  surprised.  "  What  does 
anybody  after  a  reception  call  for?" 

"  The  Lord  only  knows." 

"  He  is  the  funniest  little  man,"  Evelyn  vent 
ured  to  say. 

"  That  is  no  way,  child,  to  speak  of  the  son  of 
a  duke,"  said  Mavick,  relaxing  a  little. 

Carmen  did  not  like  the  tone  in  which  this  was 
said,  but  she  prudently  kept  silent.  And  pres 
ently  Evelyn  continued  : 

"  He  asked  for  you,  papa,  and  said  he  wanted 
to  pay  his  respects." 

"  I  am  glad  he  wants  to  pay  anything,"  was 
the  ungracious  answer.  Still  Evelyn  was  not  to 
be  put  down. 

"  It  was  such  a  bright  day  in  the  Park.  What 
were  you  doing  all  day,  papa  ?" 

"  Why,  my  dear,  I  was  engaged  in  Kesearch, 
you  will  be  pleased  to  know.  Looking  after 
those  ten  millions." 

242 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"When  the  dinner  was  over,  Carmen  followed 
Mr.  Mavick  to  his  study. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Tom  ?" 

"  Nothing  uncommon.  It's  a  beastly  hole 
down  there.  The  Board  used  to  be  made  up  of 
gentlemen.  Now  there  are  such  fellows  as  Ault, 
a  black-hearted  scoundrel." 

"But  he  has  no  influence.  He  is  nothing 
socially,"  said  Carmen. 

"  Neither  is  a  wolf  nor  a  cyclone.  But  I  don't 
care  to  talk  about  him.  Don't  you  see,  I  don't 
want  to  be  bothered  ?" 

While  these  great  events  were  taking  place 
Philip  was  enjoying  all  the  tremors  and  delights 
of  expectation  which  attend  callow  authorship. 
He  did  not  expect  much,  he  said  to  himself,  but 
deep  down  in  his  heart  there  was  that  sweet 
hope,  which  fortunately  always  attends  young 
writers,  that  his  would  be  an  exceptional  experi 
ence  in  the  shoal  of  candidates  for  fame,  and  he 
was  secretly  preparing  himself  not  to  be  sur 
prised  if  he  should  "awake  one  morning  and 
find  himself  famous." 

The  first  response  was  from  Celia.  She  wrote 
warm-heartedly.  She  wrote  at  length,  analyzing 
the  characters,  recalling  the  striking  scenes,  and 
praising  without  stint  the  conception  and  the 
working  out  of  the  character  of  the  heroine. 
She  pointed  out  the  little  faults  of  construction 

243 


THAT    FORTUNE 

and  of  language,  and  then  minimized  them  in 
comparison  with  the  noble  motive  and  the  unity 
and  beauty  of  the  whole.  She  told  Philip  that 
she  was  proud  of  him,  and  then  insisted  that, 
when  his  biography,  life,  and  letters  was  pub 
lished,  it  would  appear,  she  hoped,  that  his  dear 
friend  had  just  a  little  to  do  with  inspiring  him. 
It  was  exactly  the  sort  of  letter  an  author  likes 
to  receive,  critical,  perfectly  impartial,  and  with 
entire  understanding  of  his  purpose.  All  the  au 
thor  wants  is  to  be  understood. 

The  letter  from  Alice  was  quite  of  another 
sort,  a  little  shy  in  speaking  of  the  story,  but 
full  of  affection.  "Perhaps,  dear  Phil,"  she 
wrote,  "I  ought  not  to  tell  you  how  much  I 
like  it,  how  it  quite  makes  me  blush  in  its  reve 
lation  of  the  secrets  of  a  New  England  girl's 
heart.  I  read  it  through  fast,  and  then  I  read 
it  again  slowly.  It  seemed  better  even  the  sec 
ond  time.  I  do  think,  Phil,  it  is  a  dear  little 
book.  Patience  says  she  hopes  it  will  not  be 
come  common ;  it  is  too  fine  to  be  nosed  about 
by  the  ordinary.  I  suppose  you  had  to  make  it 
pathetic.  Dear  me !  that  is  just  the  truth  of  it. 
Forgive  me  for  writing  so  freely.  I  hope  it  will 
not  be  long  before  we  see  you.  To  think  it  is 
done  by  little  Phil  1" 

The  most  eagerly  expected  acknowledgment 
was,  however,  a  disappointment.  Philip  knew 
244 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Mrs.  Mavick  too  well  by  this  time  to  expect  a 
letter  from  her  daughter,  but  there  might  have 
been  a  line.  But  Mrs.  Mavick  wrote  herself. 
Her  daughter,  she  said,  had  asked  her  to  ac 
knowledge  the  receipt  of  his  very  charming 
story.  When  he  had  so  many  friends  it  was 
very  thoughtful  in  him  to  remember  the  ac 
quaintances  of  last  summer.  She  hoped  the 
book  would  have  the  success  it  deserved. 

This  polite  note  was  felt  to  be  a  slap  in  the 
face,  but  the  effect  of  it  was  softened  a  little 
later  by  a  cordial  and  appreciative  letter  from 
Miss  McDonald,  telling  the  author  what  great 
delight  and  satisfaction  they  had  had  in  reading 
it,  and  thanking  him  for  a  prose  idyl  that  showed 
in  the  old-fashioned  way  that  common  life  was 
not  necessarily  vulgar. 

The  critics  seemed  to  Philip  very  slow  in  let 
ting  the  public  know  of  the  birth  of  the  book. 
Presently,  however,  the  little  notices,  all  very 
much  alike,  began  to  drop  along,  longer  or 
shorter  paragraphs,  commonly  in  undiscriminat- 
ing  praise  of  the  beauty  of  the  story,  the  ma 
jority  of  them  evidently  written  by  reviewers 
who  sat  down  to  a  pile  of  volumes  to  be  turned 
off,  and  who  had  not  more  than  five  or  ten  min 
utes  to  be  lost.  Rarely,  however,  did  any  one 
condemn  it,  and  that  showed  that  it  was  harm 
less.  Mr.  Brad  had  given  it  quite  a  lift  in  the 
245 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Spectrum.  The  notice  was  mainly  personal — the 
first  work  of  a  brilliant  young  man  at  the  bar 
who  was  destined  to  go  high  in  his  profession, 
unless  literature  should,  fortunately  for  the  pub 
lic,  have  stronger  attractions  for  him.  That  such 
a  country  idyl  should  be  born  amid  law-books 
was  sufficiently  remarkable.  It  was  an  open 
secret  that  the  scene  of  the  story  was  the  birth 
place  of  the  author — a  lovely  village  that  was 
brought  into  notice  a  summer  ago  as  the  chosen 
residence  of  Thomas  Maviek  and  his  family. 

Eagerly  looked  for  at  first,  the  newspaper 
notices  soon  palled  upon  Philip,  the  uniform 
tone  of  good-natured  praise,  unanimous  in  the 
extravagance  of  unmeaning  adjectives.  JSTow 
and  then  he  welcomed  one  that  was  ill-natured 
and  cruellv  censorious.  That  was  a  relief.  And 

V 

yet  there  were  some  reviews  of  a  different  sort, 
half  a  dozen  in  all,  and  half  of  them  from  West 
ern  journals,  which  took  the  book  seriously,  saw 
its  pathos,  its  artistic  merit,  its  failure  of  con 
struction  through  inexperience.  A  few  com 
mended  it  warmly  to  readers  who  loved  ideal 
purity  and  could  recognize  the  noble  in  common 
life.  And  some,  whom  Philip  regarded  as  au 
thorities,  welcomed  a  writer  who  avoided  sen 
sationalism,  and  predicted  for  him  an  honorable 
career  in  letters,  if  he  did  not  become  self-con 
scious  and  remained  true  to  his  ideals. 
246 


THAT    FORTUNE 

The  book  clearly  had  not  made  a  hit,  the  pub 
lishers  had  sold  one  edition  and  ordered  half 
another,  and  no  longer  regarded  the  author  as  a 
risk.  But,  better  than  this,  the  book  had  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  many  lovers  of  litera 
ture.  Philip  was  surprised  day  after  day  by 
meeting  people  who  had  read  it.  His  name 
began  to  be  known  in  a  small  circle  who  are  in 
terested  in  the  business,  and  it  was  not  long  be 
fore  he  had  offers  from  editors,  who  were  always 
on  the  lookout  for  new  writers  of  promise,  to 
send  something  for  their  magazines.  And,  per 
haps  more  flattering  than  all,  he  began  to  have 
society  invitations  to  dine,  and  professional  invi 
tations  to  those  little  breakfasts  that  publishers 
give  to  old  writers  and  to  young  whose  names 
are  beginning  to  be  spoken  of.  All  this  was  very 
exhilarating  and  encouraging.  And  yet  Philip 
was  not  allowed  to  be  unduly  elated  by  the  at 
tention  of  his  fellow  -  craftsmen,  for  he  soon 
found  that  a  man's  consequence  in  this  circle, 
as  well  as  with  the  great  public,  depended  large 
ly  upon  the  amount  of  the  sale  of  his  book. 
How  else  should  it  be  rated,  when  a  very  pop 
ular  author,  by  whom  Philip  sat  one  day  at 
luncheon,  confessed  that  he  never  read  books  ? 

"  So,"  said  Mr.  Sharp,  one  morning,  "  I  see  you 
have  gone  into  literature,  Mr.  Burnett." 

247 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"Not  very  deep,"  replied  Philip  with  a  smile, 
as  he  rose  from  his  desk. 

"  Going  to  drop  law,  eh  ?" 

"  I  haven't  had  occasion  to  drop  much  of  any 
thing  yet,"  said  Philip,  still  smiling. 

"  Oh  well,  two  masters,  you  know,"  and  Mr. 
Sharp  passed  on  to  his  room. 

It  was  not,  however,  Mr.  Sharp's  opinion  that 
Philip  was  concerned  about.  The  polite  note 
from  Mrs.  Mavick  stuck  in  his  mind.  It  was  a 
civil  way  of  telling  him  that  all  summer  debts 
were  now  paid,  and  that  his  relations  with  the 
house  of  Mavick  were  at  an  end.  This  conclu 
sion  was  forced  upon  him  when  he  left  his  card, 
a  few  days  after  the  reception,  and  had  the  ill 
luck  not  to  find  the  ladies  at  home.  The  situa 
tion  had  no  element  of  tragedy  in  it,  but  Philip 
was  powerless.  He  could  not  storm  the  house. 
He  had  no  visible  grievance.  There  was  nothing 
to  fight.  He  had  simply  run  against  one  of  the 
invisible  social  barriers  that  neither  offer  resist 
ance  nor  yield.  No  one  had  shown  him  any  dis 
courtesy  that  society  would  recognize  as  a  matter 
of  offence.  Nay,  more  than  that,  it  could  have 
no  sympathy  with  him.  It  was  only  the  case  of 
a  presumptuous  and  poor  young  man  who  was 
after  a  rich  girl.  The  position  itself  was  ignoble, 
if  it  were  disclosed. 

Yet  fortune,  which  sometimes  likes  to  play  the 
248 


THAT    FORTUNE 

mischief  with  the  best  social  arrangements,  did 
give  Philip  an  unlooked-for  chance.  At  a  din 
ner  given  by  the  lady  who  had  been  Philip's 
only  partner  at  the  Mavick  reception,  and  who 
had  read  his  story  and  had  written  to  "her 
partner"  a  most  kind  little  note  regretting  that 
she  had  not  known  she  was  dancing  with  an 
author,  and  saying  that  she  and  her  husband 
would  be  delighted  to  make  his  acquaintance, 
Philip  was  surprised  by  the  presence  of  the 
Mavicks  in  the  drawing-room.  Neither  Mr.  nor 
Mrs.  Mavick  seemed  especially  pleased  when  they 
encountered  him,  and  in  fact  his  sole  welcome 
from  the  family  was  in  the  eyes  of  Evelyn.  The 
hostess  had  supposed  that  the  Mavicks  would  be 
pleased  to  meet  the  rising  author,  and  in  still 
further  carrying  out  her  benevolent  purpose,  and 
with,  no  doubt,  a  sympathy  in  the  feelings  of  the 
young,  Mrs.  Yan  Cortlandt  had  assigned  Miss 
Mavick  to  Mr.  Burnett.  It  was  certainly  a  nat 
ural  arrangement,  and  yet  it  called  a  blank  look 
to  Mrs.  Mavick's  face,  that  Philip  saw,  and  put 
her  in  a  bad  humor  which  needed  an  effort  for  her 
to  conceal  it  from  Mr. Yan  Cortlandt.  The  dinner 
party  was  large,  and  her  ill-temper  was  not  as 
suaged  by  the  fact  that  the  young  people  were 
seated  at  a  distance  from  her  and  on  the  same 
side  of  the  table. 

"  How   charming  your  daughter   is  looking, 
249 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Mrs.  Mavick!"  Mr.  Yan  Cortlandt  began,  by  way 
of  being  agreeable.  Mrs.  Mavick  inclined  her 
head.  "  That  young  Burnett  seems  to  be  a  nice 
sort  of  chap  ;  Mrs.  Yan  Cortlandt  says  he  is  very 
clever." 

"  Yes  ?" 

u  I  haven't  read  his  book.  They  say  he  is  a 
lawyer." 

"  Lawyer's  clerk,  I  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Mavick, 
indifferently.  "  Authors  are  pretty  plenty  now 
adays." 

"  That's  a  fact.  Everybody  writes.  I  don't 
see  how  all  the  poor  devils  live."  Mr.  Yan  Cort 
landt  had  now  caught  the  proper  tone,  and  the 
conversation  drifted  away  from  personalities. 

It  was  a  very  brilliant  dinner,  but  Philip  could 
not  have  given  much  account  of  it.  He  made  an 
effort  to  be  civil  to  his  left-hand  neighbor,  and 
he  affected  an  ease  in  replying  to  cross-table  re 
marks.  He  fancied  that  he  carried  himself  very 
well,  and  so  he  did  for  a  man  unexpectedly  ele 
vated  to  the  seventh  heaven,  seated  for  two 
hours  beside  the  girl  whose  near  presence  filled 
him  with  indescribable  happiness.  Every  look, 
every  tone  of  her  voice  thrilled  him.  How  dear 
she  was !  how  adorable  she  was !  How  radiantly 
happy  she  seemed  to  be  whenever  she  turned 
her  face  towards  him  to  ask  a  question  or  to 
make  a  reply! 

250 


THAT    FORTUNE 

At  moments  his  passion  seemed  so  overmaster 
ing  that  he  could  hardly  restrain  himself  from 
whispering,  "  Evelyn,  I  love  you."  In  a  hun 
dred  ways  he  was  telling  her  so.  And  she  must 
understand.  She  must  know  that  this  was  not 
an  affair  of  the  moment,  but  that  there  was  con 
densed  in  it  all  the  constant  devotion  of  months 
and  months.  A  woman,  even  any  girl  with  the 
least  social  experience,  would  have  seen  this. 
Was  Evelyn's  sympathetic  attention,  her  evident 
enjoyment  in  talking  with  him,  any  evidence  of 
a  personal  interest,  or  only  a  young  girl's  enjoy 
ment  of  her  new  position  in  the  world  ?  That 
she  liked  him  he  was  sure.  Did  she,  was  she  be 
ginning  in  any  degree  to  return  his  passion  ?  He 
could  not  tell,  for  guilelessness  in  a  woman  is  as 
impenetrable  as  coquetry. 

Of  what  did  they  talk  ?  A  stenographer  would 
have  made  a  meagre  report  of  it,  for  the  most 
significant  part  of  this  conversation  of  two  fresh, 
honest  natures  was  not  in  words.  One  thing, 
however,  Philip  could  bring  away  with  him  that 
was  not  a  mere  haze  of  delicious  impressions. 
She  had  been  longing,  she  said,  to  talk  to  him 
about  his  story.  She  told  him  how  eagerly  she 
had  read  it,  and  in  talking  about  its  meaning  she 
revealed  to  him  her  inner  thought  more  complete 
ly  than  she  could  have  done  in  any  other  way,  her 
sympathy  with  his  mind,  her  interest  in  his  work. 

251 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Have  you  begun  another  ?"  she  asked,  at 
last. 

"  No,  not  on  paper." 

"  But  you  must.  It  must  be  such  a  world  to 
you.  I  can't  imagine  anything  so  fine  as  that. 
There  is  so  much  about  life  to  be  said.  To  make 
people  see  it  as  it  is ;  ves,  and  as  it  ought  to  be. 
Will  you?" 

"  You  forget  that  I  am  a  lawyer." 

"  And  you  prefer  to  be  that,  a  lawyer  rather 
than  an  author?" 

"  It  is  not  exactly  what  I  prefer,  Miss  Mavick." 

"  Why  not  ?  Does  anybody  do  anything  well 
if  his  heart  is  not  in  it  ?" 

"  But  circumstances  sometimes  compel  a  man." 

"  I  like  better  for  men  to  compel  circum 
stances,"  the  girl  exclaimed,  with  that  disposition 
to  look  at  things  in  the  abstract  that  Philip  so 
well  remembered. 

"  Perhaps  I  do  not  make  myself  understood. 
One  must  have  a  career." 

"  A  career?"  And  Evelyn  looked  puzzled  for 
a  moment.  "  You  mean  for  himself,  for  his  own 
self  ?  There  is  a  lawyer  who  comes  to  see  papa. 
I've  been  in  the  room  sometimes,  when  they 
didn't  mind.  Such  talk  about  schemes,  and  how 
to  do  this  and  that,  and  twisting  about.  And 
not  a  word  about  anything,  any  of  the  time. 
And  one  day  when  he  was  waiting  for  papa  I 
252 


THAT    FORTUNE 

talked  with  him.  You  would  have  been  sur 
prised.  I  told  papa  that  I  could  not  find  any 
thing  to  interest  him.  Papa  laughed  and  said  it 
was  my  fault,  he  was  one  of  the  sharpest  law 
yers  in  the  city.  Would  you  rather  be  that  than 
to  write?" 

"  Oh,  all  lawyers  are  not  like  that.  And,  don't 
you  know,  literature  doesn't  pay." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  that."  And  then  she 
thought  a  minute  and  with  a  quizzical  look  con 
tinued:  "That  is  such  a  queer  word,  'pay.' 
McDonald  says  that  it  pays  to  be  good.  Do  you 
think,  Mr.  Burnett,  that  law  would  pay  you  '?" 

Evidently  the  girl  had  a  standard  of  judging 
people  that  was  not  much  in  use. 

Before  they  rose  from  the  table  Philip  asked, 
speaking  low,  "  Miss  Mavick,  won't  you  give  me 
a  violet  from  your  bunch  in  memory  of  this 
evening  ?" 

Evelyn  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then,  without 
looking  up,  disengaged  three,  and  shyly  laid  them 
at  her  left  hand.  "  I  like  the  number  three  better." 

Philip  covered  the  flowers  with  his  hand,  and 
said,  "  I  will  keep  them  always." 

"  That  is  a  long  time,"  Evelyn  answered,  but 
still  without  looking  up.  But  when  they  rose 
the  color  mounted  to  her  cheeks,  and  Philip 
thought  that  the  glorious  eyes  turned  upon  him 
were  full  of  trust. 

253 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"It  is  all  your  doing,"  said  Carmen,  snappish 
ly,  when  Mavick  joined  her  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  What  is  ?" 

"  You  insisted  upon  having  him  at  the  recep 
tion." 

"  Burnett  ?     Oh,  stuff,  he  isn't  a  fool !" 

There  was  not  much  said  as  the  three  drove 
home.  Evelyn,  flushed  with  pleasure  and  ab 
sorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  saw  that  something 
had  gone  wrong  with  her  mother  and  kept  silent. 
Mr.  Mavick  at  length  broke  the  silence  with : 

"  Did  you  have  a  good  time,  child  ?" 

"Oh  yes,"  replied  Evelyn,  cheerfully,  "and 
Mrs.  Van  Cortlandt  was  very  sweet  to  me.  Don't 
3^ou  think  she  is  very  hospitable,  mamma  ?" 

"Tries  to  be,"  Mrs.  Mavick  replied,  in  no  cordial 
tone.  "  Good-natured  and  eccentric.  She  picks 
up  the  queerest  lot  of  people.  You  can  never 
know  whom  you  will  not  meet  at  her  house. 
Just  now  she  goes  in  for  being  literary." 

Evelyn  was  not  so  reticent  with  McDonald. 
"While  she  was  undressing  she  disclosed  that  she 
had  had  a  beautiful  evening,  that  she  was  taken 
out  by  Mr.  Burnett,  and  talked  about  his  story. 

"And,  do  you  know,  I  think  I  almost  per 
suaded  him  to  write  another." 

"  It's  an  awful  responsibility,"  dr}rly  said  the 
shrewd  Scotch  woman,  "advising  young  men 
what  to  do." 

254 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

UPON  the  recollection  of  this  dinner  Philip 
maintained  his  hope  and  courage  for  a  long  time. 
The  day  after  it  New  York  seemed  more  brilliant 
to  him  than  it  had  ever  been.  In  the  afternoon 
he  rode  down  to  the  Battery.  It  was  a  mild 
winter  day,  with  a  haze  in  the  atmosphere  that 
softened  all  outlines  and  gave  an  enchanting  ap 
pearance  to  the  harbor  shores.  The  water  was 
silvery,  and  he  watched  a  long  time  the  craft 
plying  on  it — the  business-like  ferry-boats,  the 
spiteful  tugs,  the  great  ocean  steamers,  boldly 
pushing  out  upon  the  Atlantic  through  the  Nar 
rows  or  cautiously  drawing  in  as  if  weary  with 
the  buffeting  of  the  waves.  The  scene  kindled 
in  him  a  vigorous  sense  of  life,  of  prosperity,  of 
longing  for  the  activity  of  the  great  world. 

Clearly  he  must  do  something  and  not  be  mop 
ing  in  indecision.  Uncertainty  is  harder  to  bear 
than  disaster  itself.  When  he  thought  of  Eve 
lyn,  and  he  always  thought  of  her,  it  seemed 
cowardly  to  hesitate.  Celia,  after  her  first  out 
burst  of  enthusiasm,  had  returned  to  her  cautious 
255 


THAT    FORTUNE 

advice.  The  law  was  much  surer.  Literature 
was  a  mere  chance.  Why  not  be  content  with 
his  little  success  and  buckle  down  to  his  profes 
sion  ?  Perhaps  by-and-by  he  would  have  leisure 
to  indulge  his  inclination.  The  advice  seemed 
sound. 

But  there  was  Evelyn,  with  her  innocent  ques 
tion,  "Would  the  law  pay  you?"  Evelyn? 
"Would  he  be  more  likely  to  win  her  by  obeying 
the  advice  of  Celia,  or  by  trusting  to  Evelyn's  in 
experienced  discernment?  Indeed,  what  chance 
was  there  to  win  her  at  all  ?  What  had  he  to 
offer  her  ? 

His  spirits  invariably  fell  when  he  thought  of 
submitting  his  pretensions  to  the  great  man  of 
Wall  Street  or  to  his  worldly  wife.  Already  it 
was  the  gossip  of  the  clubs  that  Lord  Montague 
was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  Mavicks',  that  he 
was  often  seen  in  their  box  at  the  opera,  and 
that  Mrs.  Mavick  had  said  to  Bob  Shafter  that 
it  was  a  scandal  to  talk  of  Lord  Montague  as  a 
fortune-hunter.  He  was  a  most  kind-hearted, 
domestic  man.  She  should  not  join  in  the  news 
paper  talk  about  him.  He  belonged  to  an  old 
English  family,  and  she  should  be  civil  to  him. 
Generally  she  did  not  fancy  Englishmen,  and 
this  one  she  liked  neither  better  nor  worse  be 
cause  he  had  a  title.  And  when  you  came  to 
that,  why  shouldn't  any  American  girl  marry 
256 


THAT    FORTUNE 

her  equal  ?  As  to  Montague,  he  was  her  friend, 
and  she  knew  that  he  had  not  the  least  intention 
at  present  of  marrying  anybody.  And  then  the 
uncharitable  gossip  went  on,  that  there  was  the 
Count  de  1'Auney,  and  that  Mrs.  Mavick  was 
playing  the  one  off  against  the  other. 

As  the  days  went  on  and  spring  began  to  ap 
pear  in  the  light,  fleeting  clouds  in  the  blue  sky 
and  in  the  greening  foliage  in  the  city  squares, 
Philip  became  more  and  more  restless.  The  sit 
uation  was  intolerable.  Evelyn  he  could  never 
see.  Perhaps  she  wondered  that  he  made  no 
effort  to  see  her.  Perhaps  she  never  thought  of 
him  at  all,  and  simply,  like  an  obedient  child, 
accepted  her  mother's  leading,  and  was  getting 
to  like  that  society  life  which  was  recorded  in 
the  daily  journals.  What  did  it  matter  to  him 
whether  he  stuck  to  the  law  or  launched  himself 
into  the  Bohemia  of  literature,  so  long  as  doubt 
about  Evelyn  haunted  him  day  and  night?  If 
she  was  indifferent  to  him,  he  would  know  the 
worst,  and  go  about  his  business  like  a  man. 
"Who  were  the  Mavicks,  anyway  ? 

Alice  had  written  him  once  that  Evelyn  was  a 
dear  girl,  no  one  could  help  loving  her ;  but  she 
did  not  like  the  blood  of  father  and  mother. 
"  And  remember,  Phil — you  must  let  me  sa,y  this 
— there  is  not  a  drop  of  mean  blood  in  your  an 
cestors." 

R  257 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Philip  smiled  at  this.  He  was  not  in  love  with 
Mrs.  Mavick  nor  with  her  husband.  They  were 
for  him  simply  guardians  of  a  treasure  he  very 
much  coveted,  and  yet  they  were  to  a  certain 
extent  ennobled  in  his  mind  as  the  authors  of 
the  being  he  worshipped.  If  it  should  be  true 
that  his  love  for  her  was  returned,  it  would  not 
be  possible  even  for  them  to  insist  upon  a  course 
that  would  make  their  daughter  unhappy  for 
life.  They  might  reject  him — no  doubt  he  was 
a  wholly  unequal  match  for  the  heiress  —  but 
could  they,  to  the  very  end,  be  cruel  to  her  ? 

Thus  the  ingenuous  young  man  argued  with 
himself,  until  it  seemed  plain  to  him  that  if 
Evelyn  loved  him,  and  the  conviction  grew  that 
she  did,  all  obstacles  must  give  way  to  this  over 
mastering  passion  of  his  life.  If  he  were  living 
in  a  fool's  paradise  he  would  know  it,  and  he 
ventured  to  put  his  fortune  to  the  test  of  experi 
ment.  The  only  manly  course  was  to  gain  the 
consent  of  the  parents  to  ask  their  daughter  to 
marry  him ;  if  not  that,  then  to  be  permitted  to 
see  her.  He  was  nobly  resolved  to  pledge  him 
self  to  make  no  proposals  to  her  without  their 
approval. 

This  seemed  a  very  easy  thing  to  do  until  he 

attempted  it.     He  would  simply  happen  into  Mr. 

Mavick's  office,  and,  as  Mr.  Mavick  frequently 

talked  familiarly  with  him,  he  would  contrive  to 

258 


THAT    FORTUNE 

lead  the  conversation  to  Evelyn,  and  make  his 
confession.  He  mapped  out  the  whole  conversa 
tion,  and  even  to  the  manner  in  which  he  would 
represent  his  own  prospects  and  ambitions  and 
his  hopes  of  happiness.  Of  course  Mr.  Mavick 
would  evade,  and  say  that  it  would  be  a  long 
time  before  they  should  think  of  disposing  of 
their  daughter's  hand,  and  that — well,  he  must 
see  himself  that  he  was  in  no  position  to  support 
a  wife  accustomed  to  luxury  ;  in  short,  that  one 
could  not  create  situations  in  real  life  as  he  could 
in  novels,  that  personally  he  could  give  him  no 
encouragement,  but  that  he  would  consult  his 
wife. 

This  dream  got  no  further  than  a  private  re 
hearsal.  When  he  called  at  Mr.  Mavick's  office 
he  learned  that  Mr.  Mavick  had  gone  to  the 
Pacific  coast,  and  that  he  would  probably  be  ab 
sent  several  weeks.  But  Philip  could  not  wait. 
He  resolved  to  end  his  torture  by  a  bold  stroke. 
He  wrote  to  Mrs.  Mavick,  saying  that  he  had 
called  at  Mr.  Mavick's  office,  and,  not  finding  him 
at  home,  he  begged  that  she  would  give  him  an 
interview  concerning  a  matter  of  the  deepest 
personal  interest  to  himself. 

Mrs.  Mavick  understood  in  an  instant  what 
this  meant.  She  had  feared  it.  Her  first  im 
pulse  was  to  write  him  a  curt  note  of  a  charac 
ter  that  would  end  at  once  all  intercourse.  On 

259 


THAT    FORTUNE 

second  thought  she  determined  to  see  him,  to 
discover  how  far  the  affair  had  gone,  and  to  have 
it  out  with  him  once  for  all.  She  accordingly 
wrote  that  she  would  have  a  few  minutes  at 
half  past  five  the  next  day. 

As  Philip  went  up  the  steps  of  the  Mavick 
house  at  the  appointed  hour,  he  met  coming  out 
of  the  door — and  it  seemed  a  bad  omen — Lord 
Montague,  who  seemed  in  high  spirits,  stared  at 
Philip  without  recognition,  whistled  for  his  cab, 
and  drove  away. 

Mrs.  Mavick  received,  him  politely,  and,  with 
out  offering  her  hand,  asked  him  to  be  seated. 
Philip  was  horribly  embarrassed.  The  woman 
was  so  cool,  so  civil,  so  perfectly  indifferent. 
He  stammered  out  something  about  the  weather 
and  the  coming  spring,  and  made  an  allusion  to 
the  dinner  at  Mrs.  Van  Cortlandt's.  Mrs.  Mavick 
was  not  in  the  mood  to  help  him  with  any  gen 
eral  conversation,  and  presently  said,  looking  at 
her  watch : 

"  You  wrote  me  that  you  wanted  to  con 
sult  me.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for 
you  ?" 

"  It  was  a  personal  matter,"  said  Philip,  get 
ting  control  of  himself. 

"  So  you  wrote.  Mr.  Mavick  is  away,  and  if  it 
is  in  regard  to  anything  in  your  office,  any  pro 
motion,  you  know,  I  don't  understand  anything 
260 


THAT    FORTUNE 

about  business."     And  Mrs.  Mavick  smiled  gra 
ciously. 

"  No,  it  is  not  about  the  office.  I  should  not 
think  of  troubling  my  friends  in  that  way.  It  is 
just  that— 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  Mrs.  Mavick  interrupted,  with 
good-humor,  "  it's  about  the  novel.  I  hear  that 
it  has  sold  very  well.  And  you  are  not  certain 
whether  its  success  will  warrant  your  giving  up 
your  clerkship.  Now  as  for  me,"  and  she  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  with  the  air  of  weighing  the 
chances  in  her  mind,  "  it  doesn't  seem  to  me 
that  a  writer — 

"  No,  it  is  not  that,"  said  Philip,  leaning  for 
ward  and  looking  her  full  in  the  face  with  all 
the  courage  he  could  summon,  "  it  is  your  daugh 
ter." 

"  What !"  cried  Mrs.  Mavick,  in  a  tone  of  in 
credulous  surprise. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  think  me  very  pre 
sumptuous." 

"Presumptuous!  Why,  she  is  a  child.  Do 
you  know  what  you  are  talking  about?" 

"  My  mother  married  at  eighteen,"  said  Philip, 
gently. 

"That  is  an  interesting  piece  of  information, 
but  I  don't  see  its  bearing.  "Will  you  tell  me, 
Mr.  Burnett,  what  nonsense  you  have  got  into 
your  head  ?" 

261 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  I  want,"  and  Philip  spoke  very  gently — "  I 
want,  Mrs.  Mavick,  permission  to  see  your  daugh 
ter." 

"Ah!  I  thought  in  Rivervale,  Mr.  Burnett, 
that  you  were  a  gentleman.  You  presume  upon 
my  invitation  to  this  house,  in  an  underhand 
way,  to—  "What  right  have  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Mavick  was  so  beside  herself  that  she 
could  hardly  speak.  The  lines  in  her  face  deep 
ened  into  wrinkles  and  scowls.  There  was  some 
thing  malevolent  and  mean  in  it.  Philip  was 
astonished  at  the  transformation.  And  she 
looked  old  and  ugly  in  her  passion. 

"  You !"  she  repeated. 

"It  is  only  this,  Mrs.  Mavick,"  and  Philip 
spoke  calmly,  though  his  blood  was  boiling  at 
her  insulting  manner — "it  is  only  this — I  love 
your  daughter." 

"  And  you  have  told  her  this  ?" 

"  No,  never,  never  a  word." 

"  Does  she  know  anything  of  this  absurd,  this 
silly  attempt  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  not." 

"  Ah !  Then  you  have  spared  yourself  one 
humiliation.  My  daughters  affections  are  not 
likely  to  be  placed  where  her  parents  do  not  ap 
prove.  Her  mother  is  her  only  confidante.  I 
can  tell  you,  Mr.  Burnett,  and  when  you  are 
over  this  delusion  you  will  thank  me  for  being 
262 


THAT    FORTUNE 

so  plain  with  you,  my  daughter  would  laugh  at 
the  idea  of  such  a  proposal.  But  I  will  not  have 
her  annoyed  by  impecunious  aspirants." 

"Madam!"  cried  Philip,  rising,  with  a  flushed 
face,  and  then  he  remembered  that  he  was  talk 
ing  to  Evelyn's  mother,  and  uttered  no  other 
word. 

"This  is  ended."  And  then,  with  a  slight 
change  of  manner,  she  went  on :  "  You  must  see 
how  impossible  it  is.  You  are  a  man  of  honor. 
I  should  like  to  think  well  of  you.  I  shall  trust 
to  your  honor  that  you  will  never  try,  by  letter 
or  otherwise,  to  hold  any  communication  with 
her." 

"  I  shall  obey  you,"  said  Philip,  quite  stiffly, 
"  because  you  are  her  mother.  But  I  love  her, 
and  I  shall  always  love  her." 

Mrs.  Mavick  did  not  condescend  to  any  reply 
to  this,  but  she  made  a  cold  bow  of  dismissal  and 
turned  away  from  him.  He  left  the  house  and 
walked  away,  scarcely  knowing  in  which  direc 
tion  he  went,  anger  for  a  time  being  uppermost 
in  his  mind,  chagrin  and  defeat  following,  and 
with  it  the  confused  feeling  of  a  man  who  has 
passed  through  a  cyclone  and  been  landed  some 
where  amid  the  scattered  remnants  of  his  posses 
sions. 

As  he  strode  away  he  was  intensely  humili 
ated.  He  had  been  treated  like  an  inferior.  He 
263 


THAT    FORTUNE 

had  voluntarily  put  himself  in  a  position  to  be 
insulted.  Contempt  had  been  poured  upon  him, 
his  feelings  had  been  outraged,  and  there  was  no 
way  in  which  he  could  show  his  resentment. 

Presently,  as  his  anger  subsided,  he  began  to 
look  at  the  matter  more  sanety.  "What  had  hap 
pened?  He  had  made  an  honorable  proposal. 
But  what  right  had  he  to  expect  that  it  would 
be  favorably  considered?  He  knew  all  along 
that  it  was  most  unlikely  that  Mrs.  Mavick 
would  entertain  for  a  moment  the  idea  of  such  a 
match.  He  knew  what  would  be  the  unanimous 
opinion  of  society  about  it.  In  the  case  of  any 
other  young  man  aspiring  to  the  hand  of  a  rich 
girl,  he  knew  very  well  what  he  should  have 
thought. 

Well,  he  had  done  nothing  dishonorable.  And 
as  he  reviewed  the  bitter  interview  he  began  to 
console  himself  with  the  thought  that  he  had  not 
lost  his  temper,  that  he  had  said  nothing  to  be 
regretted,  nothing  that  he  should  not  have  said 
to  the  mother  of  the  girl  he  loved.  There  was 
an  inner  comfort  in  this,  even  if  his  life  were 
ruined. 

Mrs.  Mavick,  on  the  contrary,  had  not  so  good 
reason  to  be  satisfied  with  herself.  It  was  a 
principle  of  her  well-ordered  life  never  to  get  into 
a  passion,  never  to  let  herself  go,  never  to  reveal 
herself  by  intemperate  speech,  never  to  any  one, 
204 


THAT    FORTUNE 

except  occasionally  to  her  husband  when  his  cold 
sarcasm  became  intolerable.  She  felt,  as  soon  as 
the  door  closed  on  Philip,  that  she  had  made  a 
blunder,  and  yet  in  her  irritation  she  committed 
a  worse  one.  She  went  at  once  to  Evelyn's  room, 
resolved  to  make  it  perfectly  sure  that  the  Philip 
episode  was  ended.  She  had  had  suspicions 
about  her  daughter  ever  since  the  Yan  Cort- 
landt  dinner.  She  would  find  out  if  they  were 
justified,  and  she  would  act  decidedly  before  any 
further  mischief  was  done.  Evelyn  was  alone, 
and  her  mother  kissed  her  fondly  several  times 
and  then  threw  herself  into  an  easy-chair  and 
declared  she  was  tired. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  had  such  an  unpleasant  in 
terview." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Evelyn,  seating  herself  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair  and  putting  her  arm  round 
her  mother's  neck.  "  With  whom,  mamma?" 

"Oh,  with  that  Mr.  Burnett."  Mrs.  Mavick 
felt  a  nervous  start  in  the  arm  that  caressed  her. 

"  Here  ?" 

"Yes,  he  came  to  see  your  father,  I  fancy, 
about  some  business.  I  think  he  is  not  getting 
on  very  well." 

"  Why,  his  book—" 

"  I  know,  but  that  amounts  to  nothing.  There 
is  not  much  chance  for  a  lawyer's  clerk  who  gets 
bitten  with  the  idea  that  he  can  write." 

265 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  If  lie  was  in  trouble,  mamma,"  said  Evelyn, 
softly,  "  then  you  were  good  to  him." 

"  I  tried  to  be,"  Mrs.  Mavick  half  sighed, 
"  but  you  can't  do  anything  with  such  people  " 
(by  "  such  people "  Mrs.  Mavick  meant  those 
who  have  no  money)  "  when  they  don't  get  on. 
They  are  never  reasonable.  And  he  was  in 
such  an  awful  bad  temper.  You  cannot  show 
any  kindness  to  such  people  without  exposing 
yourself.  I  think  he  presumes  upon  his  acquaint 
ance  with  your  father.  It  was  most  disagree 
able,  and  he  was  so  rude  "  (a  little  thrill  in  the 
arm  again) — "  well  not  exactly  rude,  but  he  was 
not  a  bit  nice  to  me,  and  I  am  afraid  I  showed 
by  nry  looks  that  I  was  irritated.  He  was  just 
as  disagreeable  as  he  could  be.  He  met  Lord 
Montague  on  the  steps,  and  he  had  something 
spiteful  to  say  about  him.  I  had  to  tell  him  he 
was  presuming  a  good  deal  on  his  acquaintance, 
and  that  I  considered  his  manner  insulting.  He 
flung  out  of  the  house  very  high  and  mighty." 

"  That  was  not  a  bit  like  him,  mamma." 

"  We  didn't  know  him.  That  is  all.  Now  we 
do,  and  I  am  thankful  we  do.  He  will  never 
come  here  again." 

Evelyn  was  very  still  for  a  moment,  and  then 
she  said :  "  I'm  very  sorry  for  it  all.  It  must  be 
some  misunderstanding." 

"  Of  course,  it  is  dreadful  to  be  so  disappointed 
266 


THAT    FORTUNE 

in  people.  But  we  have  to  learn.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  his  misunderstanding,  but  I  did 
not  misunderstand  what  he  said.  At  any  rate, 
after  such  an  exposition  we  can  have  no  further 
intercourse  with  him.  You  will  not  care  to  see 
any  one  who  treated  your  mother  in  this  way  ? 
If  you  love  me,  you  cannot  be  friendly  with  him. 
I  know  you  would  not  like  to  be." 

Evelyn  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  Her 
silence  revealed  the  fact  to  the  shrewd  woman 
that  she  had  not  intervened  a  day  too  soon. 

"  You  promise  me,  dear,  that  you  will  put  the 
whole  thing  out  of  your  mind?"  and  she  drew 
her  daughter  closer  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

And  then  Evelyn  said  slowly:  "I  shall  not 
have  any  friends  whom  you  do  not  approve,  but, 
mamma,  I  cannot  be  unjust  in  my  mind." 

And  Mrs.  Mavick  had  the  good  sense  not  to 
press  the  question  further.  She  still  regarded 
Evelyn  as  a  child.  Her  naivete,  her  simplicity, 
her  ignorance  of  social  conventions  and  of  the 
worldly  wisdom  which  to  Mrs.  Mavick  was  the 
sum  of  all  knowledge  misled  her  mother  as  to 
her  power  of  discernment  and  her  strength  of 
character.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Mavick  had  only  the 
slightest  conception  of  that  range  of  thought  and 
feeling  in  which  the  girl  habitually  lived,  and  of 
the  training  which  at  the  age  of  eighteen  had 
given  her  discipline,  and  great  maturity  of  judg- 
267 


THAT    FORTUNE 

ment  as  well.  She  would  be  obedient,  but  she  was 
incapable  of  duplicity,  and  therefore  she  had  said 
as  plainly  as  possible  that  whatever  the  trouble 
might  be  she  would  not  be  unjust  to  Philip. 

The  interview  with  her  mother  left  her  in  a 
very  distressed  state  of  mind.  It  is  a  horrible 
disillusion  when  a  girl  begins  to  suspect  that 
her  mother  is  not  sincere,  and  that  her  ideals  of 
life  are  mean.  This  knowledge  may  exist  with 
the  deepest  affection — indeed,  in  a  noble  mind, 
with  an  inward  tenderness  and  an  almost  divine 
pity.  How  many  times  have  we  seen  a  daugh 
ter  loyal  to  a  frivolous,  worldly-minded,  insin 
cere  mother,  shielding  her  and  exhibiting  to  the 
censorious  world  the  utmost  love  and  trust ! 

Evelyn  was  far  from  suspecting  the  extent  of 
her  mother's  duplicity,  but  her  heart  told  her 
that  an  attempt  had  been  made  to  mislead  her, 
and  that  there  must  be  some  explanation  of 
Philip's  conduct  that  would  be  consistent  with 
her  knowledge  of  his  character.  And,  as  she  en 
deavored  to  pierce  this  mystery,  it  dawned  upon 
her  that  there  had  been  a  method  in  throwing 
her  so  much  into  the  society  of  Lord  Montague, 
and  that  it  was  unnatural  that  such  a  friend  as 
Philip  should  be  seen  so  seldom — only  twice 
since  the  days  in  Rivervale.  Naturally  the  very 
reverse  of  suspicious,  she  had  been  dreaming  on 
things  to  come  in  the  seclusion  of  her  awaken- 
268 


THAT    FORTUNE 

ing  womanhood,  without  the  least  notion  that 
the  freedom  of  her  own  soul  was  to  be  inter 
fered  with  by  any  merely  worldly  demands. 
But  now  things  that  had  occurred,  and  that  her 
mother  had  said,  came  back  to  her  with  a  new 
meaning,  and  her  trustful  spirit  was  overwhelmed. 
And  there,  in  the  silence  of  her  chamber,  began 
the  fierce  struggle  between  desire  and  what  she 
called  her  dut}7 — a  duty  imposed  from  without. 

She  began  to  perceive  that  she  was  not  free, 
that  she  was  a  part  of  a  social  machine,  the 
power  of  which  she  had  not  at  all  apprehended, 
and  that  she  was  powerless  in  its  clutch.  She 
might  resist,  but  peace  was  gone.  She  had  here 
tofore  found  peace  in  obedience,  but  when  she 
consulted  her  own  heart  she  knew  that  she  could 
not  find  peace  in  obedience  now.  To  a  girl  dif 
ferently  reared,  perhaps,  subterfuge,  or  some, 
manoeuvring  justified  by  the  situation,  might 
have  been  resorted  to.  But  such  a  thing  never 
occurred  to  Evelyn.  Everything  looked  dark  be 
fore  her,  as  she  more  clearly  understood  her 
mother's  attitude,  and  for  the  first  time  in  years 
she  could  do  nothing  but  give  way  to  emotions. 

"Why,  Evelyn,  you  have  been  crying!"  ex 
claimed  the  governess,  who  came  to  seek  her. 
"  What  is  the  matter  ?" 

Evelyn  arose  and  threw  herself  on  her  friend's 
neck  for  a  moment,  and  then,  brushing  away  the 
269 


THAT    FORTUNE 

tears,  said,  with  an  attempt  to  smile,  "  Oh,  noth 
ing;  I  got  thinking,  thinking,  thinking,  and — 
Don't  you  ever  get  blue,  McDonald  ?" 

"  Not  often,"  said  the  Scotchwoman,  gravely. 
"  But,  dear,  you  have  nothing  in  the  world  to 
make  you  so." 

"No,  no,  nothing;"  and  then  she  broke  down 
again,  and  threw  herself  upon  McDonald's  bos 
om  in  a  passion  of  sobbing.  "  I  can't  help  it. 
Mamma  says  Phil — Mr.  Burnett  —  is  never  to 
come  to  this  house  again.  What  have  I  done? 
And  he  will  think — he  will  think  that  I  hate 
him." 

McDonald  drew  the  girl  into  her  lap,  and  with 
uncommon  gentleness  comforted  her  with  ca 
resses. 

"Dear  child,"  she  said,  "crosses  must  come 
into  our  lives ;  we  cannot  help  that.  Your  moth 
er  is  no  doubt  doing  what  she  thinks  best  for 
your  own  happiness.  Nothing  can  really  hurt 
us  for  long,  you  know  that  well,  except  what 
we  do  to  ourselves.  I  never  told  you  why  I 
came  to  this  country — I  didn't  want  to  sadden 
you  with  my  troubles — but  now  I  want  you  to 
understand  me  better.  It  is  a  long  story." 

But  it  was  not  very  long  in  the  telling,  for  the 

narrator  found  that  what  seemed  to  her  so  long 

in  the  suffering  could  be  conveyed  to  another  in 

only  a  few  words.     And  the  story  was  not  in 

270 


THAT    FORTUNE 

any  of  its  features  new,  except  to  the  auditor. 
There  had  been  a  long  attachment,  passionate 
love  and  perfect  trust,  long  engagement,  mar 
riage  postponed  because  both  were  poor,  and  the 
lover  struggling  into  his  profession,  and  then,  it 
seemed  sudden  and  unaccountable,  his  marriage 
with  some  one  else.  "It  was  not  like  him,"  said 
the  governess  in  conclusion;  "it  was  his  ambi 
tion  to  get  on  that  blinded  him." 

"  And  he,  was  he  happy  ?"  asked  Evelyn. 

"  I  heard  that  he  was  not  "  (and  she  spoke  re 
luctantly)  ;  "  I  fear  not.  How  could  he  be  ?"  And 
the  governess  seemed  overwhelmed  in  a  flood  of 
tender  and  painful  memories.  "That  was  over 
twenty  years  ago.  And  I  have  been  happy,  my 
darling,  I  have  had  such  a  happy  life  with  you. 
I  never  dreamed  I  could  have  such  a  blessing. 
And  you,  child,  will  be  happy  too  ;  I  know  it." 

And  the  two  women,  locked  in  each  other's 
arms,  found  that  consolation  in  sympathy  which 
steals  away  half  the  grief  of  the  world.  Ah! 
who  knows  a  woman's  heart  ? 

For  Philip  there  was  in  these  days  no  such 
.  consolation.     It  was  a  man's  way  not  to  seek 
any,  to  roll  himself  up  in  his  trouble  like  a  hi 
bernating  bear.    And  yet  there  were  times  when 
he  had  an  intolerable  longing  for  a  confidant,  for 
some  one  to  whom  he  could  relieve  himself  of 
271 


THAT    FORTUNE 

part  of  his  burden  by  talking.  To  Celia  he  could 
say  nothing.  Instinct  told  him  that  he  should 
not  go  to  her.  Of  the  sympathy  of  Alice  he  was 
sure,  but  why  inflict  his  selfish  grief  on  her  ten 
der  heart?  But  he  was  writing  to  her  often,  he 
was  talking  to  her  freely  about  his  perplexities, 
about  leaving  the  office  and  trusting  himself  to 
the  pursuit  of  literature  in  some  wa}r.  And,  in 
answer  to  direct  questions,  he  told  her  that  he 
had  seen  Evelyn  only  a  few  times,  and,  the  fact 
was,  that  Mrs.  Mavick  had  cut  him  dead.  He 
could  not  give  to  his  correspondent  a  very  hu 
morous  turn  to  this  situation,  for  Alice  knew — 
had  she  not  seen  them  often  together,  and  did 
she  not  know  the  depths  of  Philip's  passion  ? 
And  she  read  between  the  lines  the  real  state  of 
the  case.  Alice  was  indignant,  but  she  did  not 
think  it  wise  to  make  too  much  of  the  incident. 
Of  Evelyn  she  wrote  affectionately  —  she  knew 
she  was  a  noble  and  high-minded  girl.  As  to 
her  mother,  she  dismissed  her  with  a  country  es 
timate.  "  You  know,  Phil,  that  I  never  thought 
she  was  a  lady." 

But  the  lover  was  not  to  be  wholly  without 
comfort.  He  met  by  chance  one  day  on  the 
Avenue  Miss  McDonald,  and  her  greeting  was  so 
cordial  that  he  knew  that  he  had  at  least  one 
friend  in  the  house  of  Mavick. 

It  was  a  warm  spring  day,  a  stray  day  sent  in 
272 


THAT    FORTUNE 

advance,  as  it  were,  to  warn  the  nomads  of  the 
city  that  it  was  time  to  move  on.  The  tramps 
in  Washington  Square  felt  the  genial  impulse, 
and,  seeking  the  shaded  benches,  began  to  dream 
of  the  open  country,  the  hospitable  farm-houses, 
the  nooning  by  way-side  springs,  and  the  charm 
of  wandering  at  will  among  a  tolerant  and  not 
too  watchful  people.  Having  the  same  abun 
dant  leisure,  the  dwellers  up-town — also  nomads 
— were  casting  in  their  minds  how  best  to  em 
ploy  it,  and  the  fortunate  ones  were  already 
gathering  together  their  flocks  and  herds  and 
preparing  to  move  on  to  their  camps  at  New 
port  or  among  the  feeding -hills  of  the  New- 
England  coast. 

The  foliage  of  Central  Park,  already  heavy, 
still  preserved  the  freshness  of  its  new  birth,  and 
invited  the  stroller  on  the  Avenue  to  its  protect 
ing  shade.  At  Miss  McDonald's  suggestion  they 
turned  in  and  found  a  secluded  seat. 

"  I  often  come  here,"  she  said  to  Philip;  "  it  is 
almost  as  peaceful  as  the  wilderness  itself." 

To  Philip  also  it  seemed  peaceful,  but  the 
soothing  influence  he  found  in  it  was  that  he 
was  sitting  with  the  woman  who  saw  Evelyn 
hourly,  who  had  been  with  her  only  an  hour  ago. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  reply  to  a  question,  "  every 
body  is  well.  We  are  going  to  leave  town  earlier 
than  usual  this  summer,  as  soon  as  Mr.  Mavick 
s  273 


THAT    FORTUNE 

returns.  Mrs.  Mavick  is  going  to  open  her  New 
port  house ;  she  says  she  has  had  enough  of  the 
country.  It  is  still  very  amusing  to  me  to  see 
how  you  Americans  move  about  witli  the  sea 
sons,  just  like  the  barbarians  of  Turkestan,  half 
the  year  in  summer  camps  and  half  the  year  in 
winter  camps.57 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Philip,  "  it  is  because  the  so 
cial  pasturage  gets  poor." 

"  Maybe,"  replied  the  governess,  continuing  the 
conceit,  "  only  the  horde  keeps  pretty  well  to 
gether,  wherever  it  is.  I  know  we  are  to  have 
a  very  g&y  season.  Lots  of  distinguished  foreign 
ers  and  all  that." 

"  But,"  said  Philip,  "  don't  England  and  the 
Continent  long  for  the  presence  of  Americans 
in  the  season  in  the  same  way  ?" 

"  Not  exactly.  It  is  the  shop-keepers  and 
hotels  that  sigh  for  the  Americans.  I  don't 
think  that  American  shop-keepers  expect  much 
of  foreigners." 

"  And  you  are  going  soon  ?  I  suppose  Miss 
Mavick  is  eager  to  go  also,"  said  Philip,  trying 
to  speak  indifferently. 

Miss  McDonald  turned  towards  him  with  a 
look  of  perfect  understanding,  and  then  replied, 
"No,  not  eager;  she  hasn't  been  in  her  usual  spir 
its  lately — no,  not  ill — and  probably  the  change 
will  be  good  for  her.  It  is  her  first  season,  you 
274 


THAT    FORTUNE 

know,  and  that  is  always  exciting  to  a  girl.  Per 
haps  it  is  only  the  spring  weather." 

It  was  some  moments  before  either  of  them 
spoke  again,  and  then  Miss  McDonald  look 
ed  up : 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Burnett,  I  have  wanted  to  see  you 
and  have  a  talk  with  you  about  your  novel.  I 
could  say  so  little  in  my  note.  We  read  it  first 
together  and  then  I  read  it  alone,  rather  to  sit 
in  judgment  on  it,  you  know.  I  liked  it  better 
the  second  time,  but  I  could  see  the  faults  of 
construction,  and  I  could  see,  too,  why  it  will  be 
more  popular  with  a  few  people  than  with  the 
general  public.  You  don't  mind  my  saying — " 

"  Go  on,  the  words  of  a  friend." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  are  sometimes  hardest  to  bear. 
Well,  it  is  lovely,  ideal,  but  it  seems  to  me  you 
are  still  a  little  too  afraid  of  human  nature.  You 
are  afraid  to  say  things  that  are  common.  And 
the  deep  things  of  life  are  pretty  much  all  com 
mon.  ISTo,  don't  interrupt  me.  I  love  the  story 
just  as  it  is.  I  am  glad  you  wrote  it  as  you  did. 
It  was  natural,  in  your  state  of  experience,  that 
you  should  do  it.  But  in  your  next,  having  got 
rid  of  what  was  on  top  of  your  mind,  so  to  speak, 
you  will  take  a  firmer,  more  confident  hold  of 
life.  You  are  not  offended  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,"  cried  Philip.  "  I  am  very  grate 
ful.  ISTo  doubt  you  are  right.  It  seems  to  me, 
275 


THAT    FORTUNE 

now  that  I  am  detached  from  it,  as  if  it  were 
only  a  sort  of  prelude  to  something  else." 

"  Well,  you  must  not  let  my  single  opinion  in 
fluence  you  too  much,  for  I  must  in  honesty  tell 
you  another  thing.  Evelyn  will  not  have  a  word 
of  criticism  of  it.  She  says  it  is  like  a  piece  of 
music,  and  the  impudent  thing  declares  that  she 
does  not  expect  a  Scotchwoman  to  understand 
anything  but  ballad  music." 

Philip  laughed  at  this,  such  a  laugh  as  he  had 
not  indulged  in  for  many  days.  "I  hope  you 
don't  quarrel  about  such  a  little  thing." 

"  Not  seriously.  She  says  I  may  pick  away  at 
the  story — and  I  like  to  see  her  bristle  up — but 
that  she  looks  at  the  spirit." 

"  God  bless  her,"  said  Philip  under  his  breath. 

Miss  McDonald  rose,  and  they  walked  out  into 
the  Avenue  again.  How  delightful  was  the  genial 
air,  the  light,  the  blue  sky  of  spring!  How  the 
brilliant  Avenue,  now  filling  up  with  afternoon 
equipages,  sparkled  in  the  sunshine  ! 

When  they  parted,  Miss  McDonald  gave  him 
her  hand  and  held  his  a  moment,  looking  into  his 
eyes.  "  Mr.  Burnett,  authors  need  some  encour 
agement.  When  I  left  Evelyn  she  was  going  to 
her  room  with  your  book  in  her  hand." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WHY  should  not  Philip  trust  the  future  ?  He 
was  a  free  man.  He  had  given  no  hostages  to 
fortune.  Even  if  he  did  not  succeed,  no  one  else 
would  be  involved  in  his  failure.  Why  not  fol 
low  his  inclination,  the  dream  of  his  boyhood  ? 

He  was  at  liberty  to  choose  for  himself.  Every 
body  in  America  is ;  this  is  the  proclamation 
of  its  blessed  independence.  Are  we  any  better 
off  for  the  privilege  of  following  first  one  incli 
nation  and  then  another,  which  is  called  making 
a  choice  ?  Are  they  not  as  well  off,  and  on  the 
whole  as  likely  to  find  their  right  place,  who 
inherit  their  callings  in  life,  whose  careers  are 
mapped  out  from  the  cradle  by  circumstance  and 
convention?  How  much  time  do  we  waste  in 
futile  experiment  ?  Freedom  to  try  everything, 
which  is  before  the  young  man,  is  commonly 
freedom  to  excel  in  nothing. 

There  are,  of  coarse,  exceptions.  The  black 
smith  climbs  into  a  city  pulpit.  The  popular 
preacher  becomes  an  excellent  insurance  agent. 
The  saloon-keeper  develops  into  the  legislator, 
277 


THAT    FORTUNE 

and  wears  the  broadcloth  and  high  hat  of  the 
politician.  The  brakeman  becomes  the  railway 
magnate,  and  the  college  graduate  a  grocer's 
clerk,  and  the  messenger -boy,  picking  up  by 
chance  one  day  the  pen,  and  finding  it  run  easier 
than  his  legs,  becomes  a  power  on  a  city  journal, 
and  advises  society  how  to  conduct  itself  and  the 
government  how  to  make  war  and  peace.  All 
this  adds  to  the  excitement  and  interest  of  life. 
On  the  whole,  we  say  that  people  get  shaken 
into  their  right  places,  and  the  predetermined 
vocation  is  often  a  mistake.  There  is  the  anec 
dote  of  a  well-known  clergyman  who,  being  in 
a  company  with  his  father,  an  aged  and  distin 
guished  doctor  of  divinity,  raised  his  monitory 
finger  and  exclaimed,  "Ah,  you  spoiled  a  first- 
rate  carpenter  when  you  made  a  poor  minister 
of  me." 

Philip  thought  he  was  calmly  arguing  the 
matter  with  himself.  How  often  do  we  deliber 
ately  weigh  such  a  choice  as  we  would  that  of 
another  person,  testing  our  inclination  by  solid 
reason  ?  Perhaps  no  one  could  have  told  Philip 
what  he  ought  to  do,  but  every  one  who  knew 
him,  and  the  circumstances,  knew  what  he  would 
do.  He  was,  in  fact,  already  doing  it  while  he 
was  paltering  with  his  ostensible  profession. 
But  he  never  would  have  confessed,  probably  he 
would  then  have  been  ashamed  to  confess,  how 
278 


THAT  FORTUNP: 

much  his  decision  to  break  \vith  the  pretence 
of  law  was  influenced  by  the  thought  of  what  a 
certain  dark  little  maiden,  whose  image  was 
always  in  his  mind,  would  wish  him  to  do,  and 
by  the  very  remarkable  fact  that  she  was  seen 
going  to  her  room  with  his  well-read  story  in  her 
hand.  Perhaps  it  was  under  her  pillow  at  night ! 

Good-luck  seemed  to  follow  his  decision — as  it 
often  does  when  a  man  makes  a  questionable 
choice,  as  if  the  devil  had  taken  an  interest  in 
his  downward  road  to  prosperity.  But  Philip 
really  gained  a  permanent  advantage.  The  novel 
had  given  him  a  limited  reputation  and  very  lit 
tle  money.  Yet  it  was  his  stepping-stone,  and 
when  he  applied  to  his  publishers  and  told  them 
of  his  decision,  they  gave  him  some  work  as  a 
reader  for  the  house.  At  first  this  was  fitful  and 
intermittent,  but  as  he  showed  both  literary  dis 
crimination  and  tact  in  judging  of  the  market, 
his  services  were  more  in  request,  and  slowly  he 
acquired  confidential  relations  with  the  house. 
Whatever  he  knew,  his  knowledge  of  languages 
and  his  experience  abroad,  came  into  play,  and 
he  began  to  have  more  confidence  in  himself,  as 
he  saw  that  his  somewhat  desultory  education 
had,  after  all,  a  market  value. 

The  rather  long  period  of  his  struggle,  which 
is  a  common  struggle,  and  often  disheartening, 
need  not  be  dwelt  on  here.  We  can  anticipate 
279 


THAT    FORTUNE 

by  saying  that  he  obtained  in  the  house  a  per 
manent  and  responsible  situation,  with  an  in 
come  sufficient  for  a  bachelor  without  habits  of 
self-indulgence.  It  was  not  the  crowning  of  a 
noble  ambition,  it  was  not  in  the  least  the 
career  he  had  dreamed  of,  but  it  gave  him  sup 
port  and  a  recognized  position,  and,  above  all, 
did  not  divert  him  from  such  creative  work 
as  he  was  competent  to  do.  ISTay,  he  found  very 
soon  that  the  feeling  of  security,  without  any 
sordid  worry,  gave  freedom  to  his  imagination. 
There  was  something  stimulating  in  the  atmos 
phere  of  books  and  manuscripts  and  in  that 
world  of  letters  which  seems  so  large  to  those 
who  live  in  it.  Fortunately,  also,  having  a  sup 
port,  he  was  not  tempted  to  debase  his  talent  by 
sensational  ventures.  What  he  wrote  for  this  or 
that  magazine  he  wrote  to  please  himself,  and, 
although  he  saw  no  fortune  that  way,  the  little 
he  received  was  an  encouragement  as  well  as  an 
appreciable  addition  to  his  income. 

There  are  two  sorts  of  success  in  letters  as  in 
life  generally.  The  one  is  achieved  suddenly,  by 
a  dash,  and  it  lasts  as  long  as  the  author  can 
keep  the  attention  of  the  spectators  upon  his 
scintillating  novelties.  When  the  sparks  fade 
there  is  darkness.  How  many  such  glittering 
spectacles  this  century  has  witnessed !  There  is 
another  sort  of  success  which  does  not  startlingly 
280 


THAT    FORTUNE 

or  at  once  declare  itself.  Sometimes  it  comes 
with  little  observation.  The  reputation  is  slowly 
built  up,  as  by  a  patient  process  of  nature.  It  is 
curious,  as  Philip  wrote  once  in  an  essay,  to  see 
this  unfolding  in  Lowell's  life.  There  was  no 
one  moment  when  he  launched  into  great  popu 
larity — nay,  in  detail,  he  seemed  to  himself  not 
to  have  made  the  strike  that  ambition  is  always 
expecting.  But  lo  !  the  time  came  when,  by  uni 
versal  public  consent,  which  was  in  the  nature  of 
a  surprise  to  him,  he  had  a  high  and  permanent 
place  in  the  world  of  letters. 

In  anticipating  Philip's  career,  however,  it 
must  not  be  understood  that  he  had  attained  any 
wide  public  recognition.  He  was  simply  en 
rolled  in  the  great  army  of  readers  and  was 
serving  his  apprenticeship.  He  was  recognized 
as  a  capable  man  by  those  who  purvey  in  letters 
to  the  entertainment  of  the  world.  Even  this 
little  foothold  was  not  easily  gained  in  a  day,  as 
the  historian  discovered  in  reading  some  bundles 
of  old  letters  which  Philip  wrote  in  this  time  of 
his  novitiate  to  Celia  and  to  his  cousin  Alice. 

It  was  against  Celia's  most  strenuous  advice 
that  he  had  trusted  himself  to  a  literary  career. 
"  I  see,  my  dear  friend,"  she  wrote,  in  reply  to 
his  announcement  that  he  was  going  that  day  to 
Mr.  Hunt  to  resign  his  position,  "  that  you  are 
not  happy,  but  whatever  your  disappointment  or 

281 


THAT    FORTUNE 

disillusion,  you  will  not  better  yourself  by  sur 
rendering  a  regular  occupation.  You  live  too 
much  in  the  imagination  already." 

Philip  fancied,  with  that  fatuity  common  to 
his  sex,  that  he  had  worn  an  impenetrable  mask 
in  regard  to  his  wild  passion  for  Evelyn,  and  did 
not  dream  that,  all  along,  Celia  had  read  him  like 
an  open  book.  She  judged  Philip  quite  accu 
rately.  It  was  herself  that  she  did  not  know, 
and  she  would  have  repelled  as  nonsense  the  sug 
gestion  that  her  own  restlessness  and  her  own' 
changing  experiments  in  occupation  were  due  to 
the  unsatisfied  longings  of  a  woman's  heart. 

"You  must  not  think,"  the  letter  went  on, 
"  that  I  want  to  dictate,  but  I  have  noticed  that 
men — it  may  be  different  with  women — only 
succeed  by  taking  one  path  and  diligently  walk 
ing  in  it.  And  literature  is  not  a  career,  it  is 
just  a  toss  up,  a  lottery,  and  woe  to  you  if  you 
once  draw  a  lucky  number — you  will  always  be  ex 
pecting  another.  .  .  .  You  say  that  I  am  a  pretty 
one  to  give  advice,  for  I  am  always  chopping 
and  changing  myself.  Well,  from  the  time  you 
were  a  little  boy,  did  I  ever  give  you  but  one 
sort  of  advice?  I  have  been  constant  in  that. 
And  as  to  myself,  you  are  unjust.  I  have  always 
had  one  distinct  object  in  life,  and  that  I  have 
pursued.  I  wanted  to  find  out  about  life,  to  have 
experience,  and  then  do  what  I  could  do  best, 
282 


THAT    FORTUNE 

and  what  needed  most  to  be  done.  Why  did  I 
not  stick  to  teaching  in  that  woman's  college? 
Well,  I  began  to  have  doubts,  I  began  to  experi 
ment  on  my  pupils.  You  will  laugh,  but  I  will 
give  you  a  specimen.  One  day  I  put  a  question 
to  my  literature  class,  and  I  found  out  that  not 
one  of  them  knew  how  to  boil  potatoes.  They 
were  all  getting  an  education,  and  hardly  one  of 
them  knew  how  much  the  happiness  of  a  home 
depends  upon  having  the  potatoes  mealy  and 
not  soggy.  It  was  so  in  everything.  How  are 
we  going  to  live  when  we  are  all  educated,  with 
out  knowing  how  to  live  ?  Then  I  found  that 
the  masses  here  in  New  York  did  not  know  any 
better  than  the  classes  how  to  live.  Don't  think 
it  is  just  a  matter  of  cooking.  It  is  knowing 
how,  generally,  to  make  the  most  of  yourself  and 
of  your  opportunities,  and  have  a  nice  world  to 
live  in,  a  thrifty,  self-helpful,  disciplined  world. 
Is  education  giving  us  this  ?  And  then  we  think 
that  organization  will  do  it,  organization  instead 
of  self-development.  We  think  we  can  organize 
life,  as  they  are  trying  to  organize  art.  They 
have  organized  art  as  they  have  the  production 
of  cotton. 

"  Did  I  tell  you  I  was  in  that  ?     No  ?     I  used 

to  draw  in  school,  and  after  I  had  worked  in  the 

Settlement  here  in  New  York,  and  while  I  was 

working  down  on  the  East  Side,  it  came  over 

283 


THAT    FORTUNE 

me  that  maybe  I  had  one  talent  wrapped  in  a 
napkin  ;  and  I  have  been  taking  lessons  in  Fifty- 
seventh  Street  with  the  thousand  or  two  young 
women  who  do  not  know  how  to  boil  potatoes, 
but  are  pursuing  the  higher  life  of  art.  I  did  not 
tell  you  this  because  I  knew  you  would  say  that 
I  am  just  as  inconsistent  as  you  are.  But  I  am 
not.  I  have  demonstrated  the  fact  that  neither 
I  nor  one  in  a  hundred  of  those  charming  devotees 
to  art  could  ever  earn  a  living  by  art,  or  do  any 
thing  except  to  add  to  the  mediocrity  of  the 
amazing  art  product  of  this  free  country. 

"  And  you  will  ask,  what  now  ?  I  am  going 
on  in  the  same  way.  I  am  going  to  be  a  doctor. 
In  college  I  was  very  well  up  in  ph\Tsiology  and 
anatomy,  and  I  went  quite  a  way  in  biology.  So 
you  see  I  have  a  good  start.  I  am  going  to  attend 
lectures  and  go  into  a  hospital,  as  soon  as  there  is 
an  opening,  and  then  I  mean  to  practise.  One 
essential  for  a  }roung  doctor  I  have  in  advance. 
That  is  patients.  I  can  get  all  I  want  on  the 
East  Side,  and  I  have  already  studied  many  of 
them.  Law  and  medicine  are  what  I  call  real 
professions." 

However  Celia  might  undervalue  the  calling 
that  Philip  had  now  entered  on,  he  had  about 
this  time  evidence  of  the  growing  appreciation  of 
literature  by  practical  business  men.  He  was 
surprised  one  day  by  a  brief  note  from  Murad 


THAT    FORTUNE 

'  Ault,  asking  him  to  call  at  his  office  as  soon  as 
convenient. 

Mr.  Ault  received  him  in  his  private  office  at 
exactly  the  hour  named.  Evidently  Mr.  Ault's 
affairs  were  prospering.  His  establishment  pre 
sented  every  appearance  of  a  high-pressure  busi 
ness  perfectly  organized.  The  outer  rooms  were 
full  of  industrious  clerks,  messengers  were  con 
stantly  entering  and  departing  in  a  feverish  ra 
pidity,  servants  moved  silently  about,  conducting 
visitors  to  this  or  that  waiting-room  and  answer 
ing  questions,  excited  speculators  in  groups  were 
gesticulating  and  vociferating,  and  in  the  ante 
room  were  impatient  clients  awaiting  their  turn. 
In  the  inner  chamber,  however,  was  perfect  calm. 
There  at  his  table  sat  the  dark,  impenetrable  op 
erator,  whose  time  was  exactly  apportioned,  se 
rene,  saturnine,  or  genial,  as  the  case  might  be, 
listening  attentively,  speaking  deliberately,  de 
spatching  the  affair  in  hand  without  haste  or  the 
waste  of  a  moment. 

Mr.  Ault  arose  and  shook  hands  cordially,  and 
then  went  on,  without  delay  for  any  conven 
tional  talk. 

"  I  sent  for  you,  Mr.  Burnett,  because  I  wanted 
your  help,  and  because  I  thought  I  might  do  you 
a  good  turn.  You  see  "•  (with  a  grim  smile)  "  I 
have  not  forgotten  Kivervale  days.  My  wife  has 
been  reading  your  story.  I  don't  have  much 
285 


THAT    FORTUNE 

time  for  such  things  myself,  but  her  constant 
talk  about  it  has  given  me  an  idea.  I  want  to 
suggest  to  you  the  scene  of  a  novel,  one  that 
would  be  bound  to  be  a  good  seller.  I  could 
guarantee  a  big  circulation.  I  have  just  become 
interested  in  one  of  the  great  transcontinental 
lines."  He  named  the  most  picturesque  of  them 
— one  that  he,  in  fact,  absolutely  controlled. 
"Well,  I  want  a  story,  yes,  I  guess  a  good 
love-story — a  romance  of  reality  }TOU  might 
call  it  —  strung  on  that  line.  You  take  the 
idea?" 

"  Why,"  said  Philip,  half  amused  at  the  con 
ceit  and  yet  complimented  by  the  recognition  of 
his  talent,  "  I  don't  know  anything  about  rail 
roads — how  they  are  run,  cost  of  building,  pros 
pect  of  traffic,  engineering  difficulties,  all  that — 
nothing  whatever." 

"  So  much  the  better.  It  is  a  literary  work  I 
want,  not  a  brag  about  the  road  or  a  description 
of 'its  enterprise.  You  just  take  the  line  as  your 
scene.  Let  the  story  run  on  that.  The  company, 
don't  you  see,  must  not  in  any  way  be  suspected 
with  having  anything  to  do  with  it,  no  mention 
of  its  name  as  a  company,  no  advertisement  of 
the  road  on  a  fly-leaf  or  cover.  Just  your  own 
story,  pure  and  simple." 

"  But,"  said  Philip,  more  and  more  astonished 
at  this  unlooked-for  expansion  of  the  literary 


THAT    FORTUNE 

field,  "  I  could  not  embark  on  an  enterprise  of 
such  magnitude." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Ault,  complacently,  "  that  will 
be  all  arranged.  Just  a  pleasure  trip,  as  far  as 
that  goes.  You  will  have  a  private  car,  well 
stocked,  a  photographer  will  go  along,  and  I 
think — don't  you  ? — a  water-color  artist.  You 
can  take  your  own  time,  stop  when  and  where  }TOU 
choose — at  the  more  stations  the  better.  It  ou^ht 

o 

to  be  profusely  illustrated  with  scenes  on  the  line 
—yes,  have  colored  plates,  all  that  would  give  life 
and  character  to  your  story.  Love  on  a  Special, 
some  such  title  as  that.  It  would  run  like  oil. 
I  will  arrange  to  have  it  as  a  serial  in  one  of  the 
big  magazines,  and  then  the  book  would  be  bound 
to  go.  The  company,  of  course,  can  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it,  but  I  can  tell  you  privately  that 
it  would  rather  distribute  a  hundred  thousand 
copies  of  a  book  of  good  literature  through  the 
country  than  to  encourage  the  railway  truck 
that  is  going  now.  I  shouldn't  wonder,  Mr. 
Burnett,  if  the  public  would  be  interested  in 
having  the  Puritan  Nun  take  that  kind  of  a 
trip."  And  Mr.  Ault  ended  his  explanation  with 
an  interrogatory  smile. 

Philip  hesitated  a  moment,  trying  to  grasp  the 
conception  of  this  business  use  of  literature.  Mr. 
Ault  resumed: 

"  It  isn't  anything  in  the  nature  of  an  adver- 
287 


THAT    FORTUNE 

tisement.  Literature  is  a  power.  Why,  do  you 
know — of  course  you  did  not  intend  it  —  your 
story  has  encouraged  the  Peacock  Inn  to  double 
its  accommodations,  and  half  the  farm-houses  in 
Rivervale  are  expecting  summer  boarders.  The 
landlord  of  the  Peacock  came  to  see  me  the  other 
day,  and  he  says  everything  is  stirred  up  there, 
and  he  has  already  to  enlarge  or  refuse  applica 
tions." 

"  It  is  very  kind  in  you,  Mr.  Ault,  to  think  of 
me  in  that  connection,  but  I  fear  you  have  over 
estimated  my  capacity.  I  could  name  half  a 
dozen  men  who  could  do  it  much  better  than  I 
could.  They  know  how  to  do  it,  they  have  that 
kind  of  touch.  I  have  been  surprised  at  the 
literary  ability  engaged  by  the  great  corpora 
tions." 

Mr.  Ault  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  I 
wouldn't  give  a  damn  for  that  sort  of  thing.  It 
is  money  thrown  away.  If  I  should  get  one  of 
the  popular  writers  you  refer  to,  the  public  would 
know  he  was  hired.  If  you  lay  your  story  out 
there,  nobody  will  suspect  anything  of  the  sort. 
It  will  be  a  clean  literary  novel.  Not  travel,  you 
understand,  but  a  story,  and  the  more  love  in  it 
the  better.  It  will  be  a  novelty.  You  can  run 
your  car  sixty  miles  an  hour  in  exciting  passages, 
everything  will  work  into  it.  When  people  travel 
on  the  road  the  pictures  will  show  them  the  scenes 
288 


THAT    FORTUNE 

of  the  story.  It  is  a  big  thing,"  said  Mr.  Ault  in 
conclusion. 

"  I  see  it  is,"  said  Philip,  rising  at  the  hint  that 
his  time  had  expired.  "lam  very  much  obliged 
to  you,  Mr.  Ault,  for  your  confidence  in  me.  But 
it  is  a  new  idea.  I  will  have  to  think  it  over." 

"  Well,  think  it  over.  There  is  money  in  it. 
You  would  not  start  till  about  midsummer. 
Good-day." 

A  private  car !  Travel  like  a  prince !  Certainly 
literature  was  looking  up  in  the  commercial  world. 
Philip  walked  back  to  his  publishers  with  a  cer 
tain  elasticity  of  step,  a  new  sense  of  power.  Yes, 
the  power  of  the  pen.  And  why  not  ?  No  doubt 
it  would  bring  him  money  and  spread  his  name 
very  widely.  There  was  nothing  that  a  friendly 
corporation  could  not  do  for  a  favorite.  He 
would  then  really  be  a  part  of  the  great,  active, 
enterprising  world.  Was  there  anything  illegit 
imate  in  taking  advantage  of  such  an  opportu 
nity?  Surely,  he  should  remain  his  own  master, 
and  write  nothing  except  what  his  own  conscience 
approved.  But  would  he  not  feel,  even  if  no  one 
else  knew  it,  that  he  was  the  poet-laureate  of  a 
corporation  ? 

And  suddenly,  as  he  thought  how  the  clear 
vision  of  Evelyn  would  plunge  to  the  bottom  of 
such  a  temptation,  he  felt  humiliated  that  such 
a  proposition  should  have  been  made  to  him. 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Was  there  nothing,  nobody,  that  commercialism 
did  not  think  for  sale  and  to  be  trafficked  in  ? 

Nevertheless,  he  wrote  to  Alice  about  it,  de 
scribing  the  proposal  as  it  was  made  to  him, 
without  making  any  comment  on  it. 

Alice  replied  speedily.  "  Isn't  it  funny,"  she 
wrote,  "  and  isn't  it  preposterous  ?  I  wonder 
what  such  people  think  ?  And  that  horrid  young 
pirate,  Ault,  a  patron  of  literature  !  My  dear,  I 
cannot  conceive  of  you  as  the  Pirate's  Own. 
Dear  Phil,  I  want  you  to  succeed.  I  do  want 
you  to  make  money,  a  lot  of  it.  I  like  to  think 
you  are  wanted  and  appreciated,  and  that  you 
can  get  paid  better  and  better  for  what  you  do. 
Sell  your  manuscripts  for  as  good  a  price  as  you 
can  get.  Yes,  dear,  sell  your  manuscripts,  but 
don't  sell  your  soul." 


CHAPTER  XX 

Dm  Miss  McDonald  tell  Evelyn  of  her  meet 
ing  with  Philip  in  Central  Park  ?  The  Scotch 
loyalty  to  her  service  would  throw  a  doubt  upon 
this.  At  the  same  time,  the  Scotch  affection,  the 
Scotch  sympathy  with  a  true  and  romantic  pas 
sion,  and,  above  all,  the  Scotch  shrewdness,  could 
be  trusted  to  do  what  was  best  under  the  circum 
stances.  That  she  gave  the  least  hint  of  what 
she  said  to  Mr.  Burnett  concerning  Evelyn  is  not 
to  be  supposed  for  a  moment.  Certainly  she  did 
not  tell  Mrs.  Mavick.  Was  she  a  person  to  run 
about  with  idle  gossip?  But  it  is  certain  that 
Evelyn  knew  that  Philip  had  given  up  his  situa 
tion  in  the  office,  that  he  had  become  a  reader 
for  a  publishing  house,  that  he  had  definitely  de 
cided  to  take  up  a  literary  career.  And  somehow 
it  came  into  her  mind  that  Philip  knew  that  this 
decision  would  be  pleasing  to  her. 

According  to  the  analogy  of  other  things  in 
nature,  it  would  seem  that  love  must  have  some 
thing  to  feed  on  to  sustain  it.  But  it  is  remark 
able  upon  how  little  it  can  exist,  can  even  thrive 
291 


THAT    FORTUNE 

and  become  strong,  and  develop  a  power  of  re 
sistance  to  hostile  influences.  Once  it  gets  a 
lodgment  in  a  woman's  heart,  it  is  an  exclusive 
force  that  transforms  her  into  a  heroine  of  cour 
age  and  endurance.  No  arguments,  no  reason, 
no  considerations  of  family,  of  position,  of  world 
ly  fortune,  no  prospect  of  immortal  life,  nothing 
but  doubt  of  faith  in  the  object  can  dislodge  it. 
The  woman  may  yield  to  overwhelming  circum 
stances,  she  may  even  by  her  own  consent  be 
false  to  herself,  but  the  love  lives,  however  hid 
den  and  smothered,  so  long  as  the  vital  force  is 
capable  of  responding  to  a  true  emotion.  Per 
haps  nothing  in  human  life  is  so  pathetic  as  this 
survival  in  old  age  of  a  youthful,  unsatisfied  love. 
It  may  cease  to  be  a  passion,  it  may  cease  to  be 
a  misery,  it  may  have  become  only  a  placid  sen 
timent,  yet  the  heart  must  be  quite  cold  before 
this  sentiment  can  cease  to  stir  it  on  occasion — 
for  the  faded  flower  is  still  in  the  memory  the 
bloom  of  young  love. 

They  say  that  in  the  New  Education  for 
women  love  is  not  taken  into  account  in  the 
regular  course;  it  is  an  elective  study.  But  the 
immortal  principle  of  life  does  not  care  much  for 
organization,  and  says,  as  of  old,  they  reckon  ill 
who  leave  me  out. 

In  the  early  season  at  Newport  there  was  lit 
tle  to  distract  the  attention  and  much  to  calm 
292 


THAT    FORTUNE 

the  spirit.  Mrs.  Mavick  was  busy  in  her  prepara 
tion  for  the  coming  campaign,  and  Evelyn  and 
her  governess  were  left  much  alone,  to  drive 
along  the  softly  lapping  sea,  to  search  among 
the  dells  of  the  rocky  promontory  for  wild  flow 
ers,  or  to  sit  on  the  cliffs  in  front  of  the  gardens 
of  bloom  and  watch  the  idle  play  of  the  waves, 
that  chased  each  other  to  the  foaming  beach  and 
in  good -nature  tossed  about  the  cat -boats  and 
schooners  and  set  the  white  sails  shimmering  and 
dipping  in  the  changing  lights.  And  Evelyn, 
drinking  in  the  beauty  and  the  peace  of  it,  no 
doubt,  was  more  pensive  than  joyous.  Within 
the  last  few  months  life  had  opened  to  her  with 
a  suddenness  that  half  frightened  her. 

It  was  a  woman  who  sat  on  the  cliffs  now, 
watching  the  ocean  of  life,  no  longer  a  girl  into 
whose  fresh  soul  the  sea  and  the  waves  and  the 
air,  and  the  whole  beauty  of  the  world,  were 
simply  responsive  to  her  own  gayety  and  enjoy 
ment  of  living.  It  was  not  the  charming  scene 
that  held  her  thought,  but  the  city  with  its 
human  struggle,  and  in  that  struggle  one  figure 
was  conspicuous.  In  such  moments  this  one 
figure  of  youth  outweighed  for  her  all  that  the 
world  held  besides.  It  was  strange.  Would  she 
have  admitted  this  ?  Not  in  the  least,  not  even 
to  herself,  in  her  virgin  musings ;  nevertheless, 
the  world  was  changed  for  her,  it  was  more 
293 


THAT    FORTUNE 

serious,  more  doubtful,  richer,  and  more  to  be 
feared. 

It  was  not  too  much  to  say  that  one  season  had 
much  transformed  her.  She  had  been  so  ignorant 
of  the  world  a  year  ago.  She  had  taken  for 
granted  all  that  was  abstractly  right.  Now  she 
saw  that  the  conventions  of  life  were  like  sand- 
dunes  and  barriers  in  the  path  she  was  expected 
to  walk.  She  had  learned  for  one  thing  what 
money  was.  Wealth  had  been  such  an  accepted 
part  of  her  life,  since  she  could  remember,  that 
she  had  attached  no  importance  to  it,  and  had 
only  just  come  to  see  what  distinctions  it  made, 
and  how  it  built  a  barrier  round  about  her.  She 
had  come  to  know  what  it  was  that  gave  her 
father  position  and  distinction ;  and  the  knowl 
edge  had  been  forced  upon  her  by  all  the  obse 
quious  flattery  of  society  that  she  was,  as  a  great 
heiress,  something  apart  from  others.  This  posi 
tion,  so  much  envied,  may  be  to  a  sensitive  soul 
an  awful  isolation. 

It  was  only  recently  that  Evelyn  had  begun 
to  be  keenly  aware  of  the  circumstances  that 
hedged  her  in.  They  were  speaking  one  day  as 
they  sat  upon  the  cliffs  of  the  season  about  to 
begin.  In  it  Evelyn  had  always  had  unalloyed, 
childish  delight.  Now  it  seemed  to  her  some 
thing  to  be  borne. 

"  McDonald,"  the  girl  said,  abruptly,  but  evi- 
294 


THAT    FORTUNE 

dently  continuing  her  line  of  thought,  "  mamma 
says  that  Lord  Montague  is  coming  next  week." 

"  To  be  with  us  ?" 

"  Oh,  no.  He  is  to  stay  with  the  Danforth- 
Sibbs.  Mamma  says  that  as  he  is  a  stranger 
here  we  must  be  very  polite  to  him,  and  that 
his  being  here  will  give  distinction  to  the  season. 
Do  you  like  him?"  There  was  in  Evelyn  still, 
with  the  penetration  of  the  woman,  the  naivete 
of  the  child. 

"  I  cannot  say  that  he  is  personally  very  fas 
cinating,  but  then  I  have  never  talked  with  him." 

"  Mamma  says  he  is  very  interesting  about  his 
family,  and  their  place  in  England,  and  about 
his  travels.  He  has  been  in  the  South  Sea  Isl 
ands.  I  asked  him  about  them.  He  said  that 
the  natives  were  awfully  jolly,  and  that  the 
climate  was  jolly  hot.  Do  you  know,  McDonald, 
that  you  can't  get  anything  out  of  him  but  ex 
clamations  and  slang.  I  suppose  he  talks  to 
other  people  differently.  I  tried  him.  At  the 
reception  I  asked  him  who  was  going  to  take 
Tennyson's  place.  He  looked  blank,  and  then 
said,  i  Er  —  I  must  have  missed  that.  "What 
place?  Is  he  out?'" 

Miss  McDonald  laughed,  and  then  said,  "  You 

don't   understand   the   classes    in    English    life. 

Poetry  is  not  in  his  line.     You  see,  dear,  you 

couldn't  talk  to  him  about  politics.    He  is  a  born 

295 


THAT    FORTUNE 

legislator,  and  when  be  is  in  the  House  of  Lords 
he  will  know  right  well  who  is  in  and  who  is 
out.  You  mustn't  be  unjust  because  he  seems 
odd  to  you  and  of  limited  intelligence.  Just 
that  sort  of  youth  is  liable  to  turn  up  some  day 
in  India  or  somewhere  and  do  a  mighty  plucky 
thing,  and  become  a  hero.  I  dare  say  he  is  a 
great  sportsman." 

"  Yes,  he  quite  warmed  up  about  shooting. 
He  told  me  about  going  for  yak  in  the  snow 
mountains  south  of  Thibet.  Bloody  cold  it  was. 
Nasty  beast,  if  you  didn't  bring  him  down  first 
shot.  JSTo,  I  don't  doubt  his  courage  nor  his  im 
pudence.  He  looks  at  me  so  that  I  can't  help 
blushing.  I  wish  mamma  wouldn't  ask  him." 

"  But,  my  dear,  we  must  live  in  the  world  as  it 
is.  You  are  not  responsible  for  Lord  Montague." 

"  And  I  know  he  will  come,"  the  girl  persisted 
in  her  line  of  thought.  "  When  he  called  the  day 
before  we  came  away,  he  asked  a  lot  of  ques 
tions  about  Newport,  about  horses  and  polo  and 
golf,  and  all  that,  and  were  the  roads  good. 
And  then,  '  Do  you  bike,  Miss  Mavick?'  I  pre 
tended  not  to  understand,  and  said  I  was  still 
studying  with  my  governess  and  I  hadn't  got  all 
the  irregular  verbs  yet.  For  once,  he  looked 
quite  blank,  and  after  a  minute  he  said,  '  That's 
very  good,  you  know !'  McDonald,  I  just  hate 
him.  He  makes  me  so  uneasy." 
296 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  But  don't  you  know,  child,"  said  Miss  Mc 
Donald,  laughing,  "  that  we  are  required  to  love 
our  enemies  ?" 

"  So  I  would,"  replied  the  girl,  quickly,  "  if 
he  were  an  enemy  and  would  keep  away.  Ah, 
me  !  McDonald,  I  want  to  ask  you  something. 
Do  you  suppose  he  would  hang  around  a  girl 
who  was  poor,  such  a  sweet,  pretty,  dear  creat 
ure  as  Alice  Maitland,  who  is  a  hundred  times 
nicer  than  I  am  ?" 

"  He  might,"  said  Miss  McDonald,  still  quizzi 
cally.  "  They  say  that  like  goes  to  like,  and  it 
is  reported  that  the  Duke  of  Tewkesbury  is  as 
good  as  ruined." 

"  Do  be  serious,  McDonald."  The  girl  nestled 
up  closer  to  her  and  took  her  hand.  "  I  want  to 
ask  you  one  question  more.  Do  you  think — no, 
don't  look  at  me,  look  way  off  at  that  sail — do — 
you — think  that,  if  I  had  been  poor,  Mr.  Burnett 
would  have  seen  me  only  twice,  just  twice,  all 
last  season  ?" 

Miss  McDonald  put  her  arm  round  Evelyn  and 
clasped  the  little  figure  tight.  "  You  must  not 
give  way  to  fancies.  We  cannot,  as  life  is  ar 
ranged,  be  perfectly  happy,  but  we  can  be  true 
to  ourselves,  and  there  is  scarcely  anything  that 
resolution  and  patience  cannot  overcome.  I 
ought  not  to  talk  to  you  about  this,  Evelyn.  But 
I  must  say  one  thing :  I  think  I  can  read  Philip 
297 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Burnett.  Oh,  he  has  plenty  of  self-esteem,  but, 
unless  I  mistake  him,  nothing  could  so  mortify 
him  as  to  have  it  said  that  he  was  pursuing  a 
girl  for  the  sake  of  her  fortune." 

"  And  he  wouldn't !"  cried  the  girl,  looking  up 
and  speaking  in  an  unsteady  voice. 

"  Let  me  finish.  He  is,  so  I  think,  the  sort  of 
man  that  would  not  let  any  fortune,  or  anything 
else,  stand  in  the  way  when  his  heart  was  con 
cerned.  I  somehow  feel  that  he  could  not 
change — faithfulness,  that  is  his  notion.  If  he 
only  knew — " 

"  He  never  shall !  he  never  shall !"  cried  the 
girl  in  alarm — "  never!" 

"  And  you  think,  child,  that  he  doesn't  know  ? 
Come !  That  sail  has  been  coming  straight  tow 
ards  us  ever  since  we  sat  here,  never  tacked 
once.  That  is  omen  enough  for  one  day.  See 
how  the  light  strikes  it.  Come !" 

The  Newport  season  wras  not,  after  all,  very 
gay.  Society  has  become  so  complex  that  it 
takes  more  than  one  Englishman  to  make  a  sea 
son.  Were  it  the  business  of  the  chronicler  to 
study  the  evolution  of  this  lovely  watering-place 
from  its  simple,  unconventional,  animated  days 
of  natural  hospitality  and  enjoyment,  to  its  pres 
ent  splendid  and  palatial  isolation  of  a  society — 
during  the  season — which  finds  its  chief  satisfac- 
298 


THAT    FORTUNE 

tion  in  the  rivalry  of  costly  luxury  and  in  an  at 
mosphere  of  what  is  deemed  aristocratic  exclu- 
siveness,  he  would  have  a  theme  attractive  to 
the  sociologist.  But  such  a  noble  study  is  not 
for  him.  His  is  the  humble  task  of  following 
the  fortunes  of  certain  individuals,  more  or  less 
conspicuous  in  this  astonishing  flowering  of  a 
democratic  society,  who  have  become  dear  to 
him  by  long  acquaintance. 

It  was  not  the  fault  of  Mrs.  Mavick  that  the 
season  was  so  frigid,  its  glacial  stateliness  only 
now  and  then  breaking  out  in  an  illuminating 
burst  of  festivity,  like  the  lighting-up  of  a  Mon 
treal  ice-palace.  Her  spacious  house  was  always 
open,  and  her  efforts,  in  charity  enterprises  and 
novel  entertainments,  were  untiring  to  stimulate 
a  circulation  in  the  languid  body  of  society. 

This  clever  woman  never  showed  more  courage 
or  more  tact  than  in  this  campaign,  and  was 
never  more  agreeable  and  fascinating.  She  was 
even  popular.  If  she  was  not  accepted  as  a  lead 
er,  she  had  a  certain  standing  with  the  leaders, 
as  a  person  of  vivacity  and  social  influence.  Any 
company  was  eager  for  her  presence.  Her  ac 
tivity,  spirit,  and  affability  quite  won  the  regard 
of  the  society  reporters,  and  those  who  know 
ISTewport  only  through  the  newspaper  would  have 
concluded  that  the  Mavicks  were  on  the  top  of 
the  wave.  She,  however,  perfectly  understood 

299 


THAT    FORTUNE 

her  position,  and  knew  that  the  sweet  friends, 
who  exchanged  with  her,  whenever  they  met,  the 
conventional  phrases  of  affection  commented  sar 
castically  upon  her  ambitions  for  her  daughter. 
It  was,  at  the  same  time,  an  ambition  that  they 
perfectly  understood,  and  did  not  condemn  on 
any  ethical  grounds.  Evelyn  was  certainly  a 
sweet  girl,  rather  queerly  educated,  and  never 
likely  to  make  much  of  a  dash,  but  she  was  an 
heiress,  and  why  should  not  her  money  be  put 
to  the  patriotic  use  of  increasing  the  growing 
Anglo-American  cordiality. 

Lord  Montague  was,  of  course,  a  favorite,  in 
demand  for  all  f auctions,  and  in  request  for  the 
private  and  intimate  entertainments.  He  was 
an  authority  in  the  stables  and  the  kennels,  and 
an  eager  comrade  in  all  the  sports  of  the  island. 
His  easy  manner,  his  self-possession  everywhere, 
even  his  slangy  talk,  were  accepted  as  evidence 
that  he  was  above  conventionalities.  "  The  little 
man  isn't  a  beauty,"  said  Sally  McTabb,  "  but  he 
shows  i  race.' "  He  might  be  eccentric,  but  when 
you  came  to  know  him  you  couldn't  help  liking 
the  embryo  duke  in  him. 

In  fact,  things  were  going  very  well  with  Mrs. 
Mavick,  except  in  her  own  household.  There 
was  something  there  that  did  not  yield,  that  did 
not  flow  with  her  plans.  With  Lord  Montague 
she  was  on  the  most  intimate  and  confidential 
300 


THAT    FORTUNE 

relations.  He  was  almost  daily  at  the  house. 
Often  she  drove  with  him;  frequently  Evelyn  was 
with  them.  Indeed,  the  three  came  to  be  asso 
ciated  in  the  public  mind.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  of  the  intentions  of  the  young  nobleman. 
That  he  could  meet  any  opposition  was  not  con 
ceived. 

The  noble  lord,  since  they  had  been  in  New 
port,  had  freely  opened  his  mind  to  Mrs.  Mavick, 
and  on  a  fit  occasion  had  formally  requested  her 
daughter's  hand.  Needless  to  say  that  he  was 
accepted.  Nay,  more,  he  felt  that  he  was  trusted 
like  a  son.  He  was  given  every  opportunity  to 
press  his  suit.  Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  he  did 
not  appear  to  make  much  headway.  He  was 
rarely  able  to  see  her  alone,  even  for  a  moment. 
Such  evasiveness  in  a  young  girl  to  a  man  of  his 
rank  astonished  him.  There  could  be  no  reason 
for  it  in  himself;  there  must  be  some  influence 
at  work  unknown  to  his  social  experience. 

He  did  not  reproach  Mrs.  Mavick  with  this,  but 
he  let  her  see  that  he  was  very  much  annoyed. 

"  If  I  had  not  your  assurance  to  the  contrary, 
Mrs.  Mavick,"  he  said  one  day  in  a  pet,  "  I 
should  think  she  shunned  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  Lord  Montague,  that  could  not  be. 

I  told  you  that  she  had  had  a  peculiar  education ; 

she  is  perfectly  ignorant  of  the  world,  she  is  shy, 

and — well,  for  a  girl  in  her  position,  she  is  uncon- 

301 


THAT    FORTUNE 

ventional.     She  is  so  young  that  she  does  not 
yet  understand  what  life  is." 

"  You  mean  she  does  not  know  what  I  offer 
her?" 

"  Why,  my  dear  Lord  Montague,  did  you  ever 
offer  her  anything  ?" 

"Not  flat,  no,"  said  my  lord,  hesitating. 
"  Every  time  I  approach  her  she  shies  off  like  a 
young  filly.  There  is  something  I  don't  under- 
st^nd." 

"  Evelyn,"  and  Mrs.  Mavick  spoke  with  feel 
ing,  "is  an  affectionate  and  dutiful  child.  She 
has  never  thought  of  marriage.  The  prospect  is 
all  new  to  her.  But  I  am  sure  she  would  learn 
to  love  you  if  she  kne\v  you  and  her  mind  were 
once  turned  upon  such  a  union.  My  lord,  why 
not  say  to  her  what  you  feel,  and  make  the  offer 
you  intend?  You  cannot  expect  a  young  girl  to 
show  her  inclination  before  she  is  asked."  And 
Mrs.  Mavick  laughed  a  little  to  dispel  the  seri 
ousness. 

"By  Jove!  that's  so,  good  enough.  I'll  do  it 
straight  out.  I'll  tell  her  to  take  it  or  leave  it. 
]STo,  I  don't  mean  that,  of  course.  I'll  tell  her 
that  I  can't  live  without  her — that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know.  And  I  can't,  that's  just  the  fact." 

"You  can  leave  it  confidently  to  her  good 
judgment  and  to  the  friendship  of  the  family 
for  you." 

302 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Lord  Montague  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and 
seemed  to  be  looking  at  a  problem  in  his  shrewd 
mind.  For  he  had  a  shrewd  mind,  which  took 
in  the  whole  situation,  Mrs.  Mavick  and  all,  with 
a  perspicacity  that  would  have  astonished  that 
woman  of  the  world. 

"  There  is  one  thing,  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say 
it,  but  I  have  seen  it,  and  it  is  in  my  head  that  it 
is  that — I  beg  your  pardon,  madam — that  damned 
governess." 

The  shot  went  home.  The  suggestion,  put 
into  language  that  could  be  more  easily  compre 
hended  than  defended,  illuminated  Mrs.  Mavick's 
mind  in  a  flash,  seeming  to  disclose  the  source 
of  an  opposition  to  her  purposes  which  secretly 
irritated  her.  Doubtless  it  was  the  governess. 
It  was  her  influence  that  made  Evelyn  less  pli 
able  and  amenable  to  reason  than  a  young  girl 
with  such  social  prospects  as  she  had  would 
naturally  be.  Besides,  how  absurd  it  was  that  a 
young  lady  in  society  should  still  have  a  govern 
ess.  A  companion  ?  The  proper  companion  for 
a.  girl  on  the  edge  of  matrimony  was  her  mother ! 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THIS  idea,  once  implanted  in  Mrs.  Mavick's 
mind,  bore  speedy  fruit.  No  one  would  have  ac 
cused  her  of  being  one  of  those  uncomfortable 
persons  who  are  always  guided  by  an  inflexible 
sense  of  justice,  nor  could  it  be  said  that  she  was 
unintelligently  unjust.  Facile  as  she  was,  in  all 
her  successful  life  she  had  never  acted  upon  im 
pulse,  but  from  a  conscience  keenly  alive  to  what 
was  just  to  herself.  Miss  McDonald  was  in  the 
way.  And  Mrs.  Mavick  had  one  quality  of  good 
generalship — she  acted  promptly  on  her  convic 
tions. 

When  Mr.  Mavick  came  over  next  day  to 
spend  Sunday  in  what  was  called  in  print  the 
bosom  of  his  family,  he  looked  very  much  worn 
and  haggard  and  was  in  an  irritated  mood.  He 
had  been  very  little  in  Newport  that  summer, 
the  disturbed  state  of  business  confining  him  to 
the  city.  And  to  a  man  of  his  age,  New  York 
in  midsummer  in  a  panicky  season  is  not  a  recre 
ation. 

The  moment  Mrs.  Mavick  got  her  husband 

304 


THAT    FORTUNE 

alone  she  showed  a  lively  solicitude  about  his 
health. 

"  I  suppose  it  has  been  dreadfully  hot  in  the 
city?" 

"  Hot  enough.     Everything  makes  it  hot." 

"  Has  anything  gone  wrong  ?  Has  that  odious 
Ault  turned  up  again  ?" 

"  Turned  up  is  the  word.  Half  the  time  that 
man  is  a  mole,  half  the  time  a  bull  in  a  china- 
shop.  He  sails  up  to  you  bearing  your  own  flag, 
and  when  he  gets  aboard  he  shows  the  skull  and 
cross-bones." 

"  Is  it  so  bad  as  that  ?" 

"  As  bad  as  what  ? .  He  is  a  bad  lot,  but  he  is 
just  an  adventurer — a  Napoleon  who  will  get  his 
Waterloo  before  fall.  Don't  bother  about  things 
you  don't  understand.  How  are  things  down 
here?" 

"  Going  swimmingly." 

"  So  I  judged  by  the  bills.     How  is  the  lord  ?" 

"  Now  don't  be  vulgar,  Tom.  You  must  keep 
up  your  end.  Lord  Montague  is  very  nice ;  he  is 
a  great  favorite  here." 

"  Does  Evelyn  like  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  likes  him ;  she  likes  him  very  much." 

"  She  didn't  show  it  to  me." 

"  No,  she  is  awfully  shy.  And  she  is  rather 
afraid  of  him,  the  big  title  and  all  that.  And 
then  she  has  never  been  accustomed  to  act  for 
u  305 


THAT    FORTUNE 

herself.  She  is  old  enough  to  be  independent 
and  to  take  her  place  in  the  world.  At  her  age 
I  was  not  in  leading-strings." 

"  I  should  say  not,"  said  Mavick. 

"Except  in  obedience  to  my  mother,"  con 
tinued  Carmen,  not  deigning  to  notice  the  sar 
casm.  "And  I've  been  thinking  that  McDon 
ald—" 

"  So  you  want  to  get  rid  of  her  ?" 

"  What  a  brutal  way  of  putting  it !  No.  But 
if  Evelyn  is  ever  to  be  self-reliant  it  is  time  she 
should  depend  more  on  herself.  You  know  I  am 
devoted  to  McDonald.  And,  what  is  more,  I  am 
used  to  her.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  her.  You 
don't  realize  that  Evelyn  is  a  young  lady  in  so 
ciety,  and  it  has  become  ridiculous  for  her  to 
still  have  a  governess.  Everybody  would  say 
so." 

"  Well,  call  her  a  companion." 

"  Ah,  don't  you  see  it  would  be  the  same  ? 
She  would  still  be  under  her  influence  and  not 
able  to  act  for  herself." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Turn  her  adrift 
after  eighteen — what  is  it,  seventeen  ? — years  of 
faithful  service  ?" 

"  How  brutally  you  put  it.  I'm  going  to  tell 
McDonald  just  how  it  is.  She  is  a  sensible  wom 
an,  and  she  will  see  that  it  is  for  Evelyn's  good. 
And  then  it  happens  very  luckily.  Mrs.  Yan 
306 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Cortlandt  asked  me  last  winter  if  I  wouldn't  let 
her  have  McDonald  for  her  little  girl  when  we 
were  through  with  her.  She  knew,  of  course, 
that  we  couldn't  keep  a  governess  much  longer 
for  Evelyn.  I  am  going  to  write  to  her.  She 
will  jump  at  the  chance." 

"  And  McDonald  ?" 

"  Oh,  she  likes  Mrs.  Yan  Cortlandt.  It  will 
just  suit  her." 

"  And  Evelyn  ?  That  will  be  another  wrench." 
Men  are  so  foolishly  tender-hearted  about  women. 

"  Of  course,  I  know  it  seems  hard,  and  will  be 
for  a  little.  But  it  is  for  Evelyn's  good,  I  am 
perfectly  sure." 

Mr.  Mavick  was  meditating.  It  was  a  mighty 
unpleasant  business.  But  he  was  getting  tired 
of  conflict.  There  was  an  undercurrent  in  the 
lives  of  both  that  made  him  shrink  from  going 
deep  into  any  domestic  difference.  It  was  best 
to  yield. 

"  Well,  Carmen,  I  couldn't  have  the  heart  to  do 
it.  She  has  been  Evelyn's  constant  companion  all 
the  child's  life.  Ah,  well,  it's  your  own  affair. 
Only  don't  stir  it  up  till  after  I  am  gone.  I 
must  go  to  the  city  early  Monday  morning." 

Because  Mavick,  amid  all  the  demands  of  busi 
ness  and  society,  and  his  ambitions  for  power  in 
the  world  of  finance  and  politics,  had  not  had 
much  time  to  devote  to  his  daughter,  it  must  not 
307 


THAT    FORTUNE 

be  supposed  that  he  did  not  love  her.  In  the 
odd  moments  at  her  service  she  had  always  been 
a  delight  to  him ;  and,  in  truth,  many  of  his  am 
bitions  had  centred  in  the  intelligent,  affection 
ate,  responsive  child.  But  there  had  been  no 
time  for  much  real  comradeship. 

This  Sunday,  however,  and  it  was  partly  be 
cause  of  pity  for  the  shock  he  felt  was  in  store 
for  her,  he  devoted  himself  to  her.  They  had  a 
long  walk  on  the  cliff,  and  he  talked  to  her  of 
his  life,  of  his  travels,  and  his  political  experi 
ence.  She  was  a  most  appreciative  listener,  and 
in  the  warmth  of  his  confidence  she  opened  her 
mind  to  him,  and  rather  surprised  him  by  her 
range  of  intelligence  and  the  singular  upright 
ness  of  her  opinions,  and  more  still  by  her  ready 
wit  and  playfulness.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  felt  really  free  with  her  father,  and  he  for 
the  first  time  seemed  to  know  her  as  she  was  in 
her  inner  life.  When  they  returned  to  the  house, 
and  she  was  thanking  him  with  a  glow  of  en 
thusiasm  for  such  a  lovely  day,  he  lifted  her  up 
and  kissed  her,  with  an  emotion  of  affection  that 
brought  tears  to  her  eyes. 

A  couple  of  days  elapsed  before  Mrs.  Mavick 
was  ready  for  action.  During  this  time  she  had 
satisfied  herself,  by  apparently  casual  conversa 
tion  with  her  daughter  and  Miss  McDonald,  that 
the  latter  would  be  wholly  out  of  sympathy  with 
308 


THAT    FORTUNE 

her  intentions  in  regard  to  Evelyn.  Left  to  her 
self  she  judged  that  her  daughter  would  look 
with  more  favor  upon  the  brilliant  career  offered 
to  her  by  Lord  Montague.  When,  therefore,  one 
morning  the  governess  was  summoned  to  her 
room,  her  course  was  decided  on.  She  received 
Miss  McDonald  with  more  than  usual  cordiality. 
She  had  in  her  hand  a  telegram,  and  beamed 
upon  her  as  the  bearer  of  good  news. 

"  I  have  an  excellent  offer  for  you,  Miss  Mc 
Donald." 

"  An  offer  for  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  from  Mrs.  Yan  Cortlandt,  to  be  the  gov 
erness  of  her  daughter,  a  sweet  little  girl  of  six. 
She  has  often  spoken  about  it,  and  now  I  have 
an  urgent  despatch  from  her.  She  is  in  need 
of  some  one  at  once,  and  she  greatly  prefers 
you." 

"  Do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Mavick,  that  —  you  — 
want  —  that  I  am  to  leave  Evelyn,  and  you?" 
The  room  seemed  to  whirl  around  her. 

"  It  is  not  what  we  want,  McDonald,"  said 
Mrs.  Mavick  calmly  and  still  beaming,  "  but 
what  is  best.  Your  service  as  governess  has  con 
tinued  much  longer  than  could  have  been  antici 
pated,  and  of  course  it  must  come  to  an  end  some 
time.  You  understand  how  hard  this  separation 
is  for  all  of  us.  Mr.  Mavick  wanted  me  to  ex 
press  to  you  his  infinite  obligation,  and  I  am  sure 
309 


THAT    FORTUNE 

he  will  take  a  substantial  way  of  showing  it. 
Evelyn  is  now  a  young  lady  in  society,  and  of 
course  it  is  absurd  for  her  to  continue  under 
pupilage.  It  will  be  best  for  her,  for  her  char 
acter,  to  be  independent  and  learn  to  act  for  her 
self  in  the  world." 

"  Did  she— has  Evelyn—" 

"  No,  I  have  said  nothing  to  her  of  this  offer, 
which  is  a  most  advantageous  one.  Of  course 
she  will  feel  as  we  do,  at  first." 

"  Why,  all  these  years,  all  her  life,  since  she 
was  a  baby,  not  a  day,  not  a  night,  Evelyn,  and 
now — so  sweet,  so  dear — why,  Mrs.  Mavick!" 
And  the  Scotch  woman,  dazed,  with  a  piteous 
appeal  in  her  eyes,  trying  in  vain  to  control  her 
face,  looked  at  her  mistress. 

"  My  dear  McDonald,  you  must  not  take  it 
that  way.  It  is  only  a  change.  You  are  not 
going  away  really,  we  shall  all  be  in  the  same 
city.  I  am  sure  you  will  like  your  new  home. 
Shall  I  tell  Mrs.  Van  CortlandU" 

"Tell  Mrs.  Van  Cortlandt?  Yes,  tell  her, 
thanks.  I  will  go — soon — at  once.  In  a  little 
time,  to — get — ready.  Thanks."  The  governess 
rose  and  stood  a  moment  to  steady  herself.  All  her 
life  was  in  ruins.  The  blow  crushed  her.  And 
she  had  been  so  happy.  In  such  great  peace.  It 
seemed  impossible.  To  leave  Evelyn !  She  put 
out  her  hand  as  if  to  speak.  Did  Mrs.  Mavick 
310 


THAT    FORTUNE 


understand  what  she  was  doing?  That  it  was 
the  same  as  dragging  a  mother  away  from  her 
child?  But  she  said  nothing.  Words  would  not 
come.  Everything  seemed  confused  and  blank. 
She  sank  into  her  chair. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Mavick,  I  think  I  am  not 
very  strong  this  morning."  And  presently  she 
stood  on  her  feet  again  and  steadied  herself. 
"You  will  please  tell  Evelyn  before  —  before  I 
see  her."  And  she  walked  out  of  the  room  as 
one  in  a  trance. 

The  news  was  communicated  to  Evelyn,  quite 
incidentally,  in  the  manner  that  all  who  knew 
Mrs.  Mavick  admired  in  her.  Evelyn  had  just 
been  in  and  out  of  her  mother's  room,  on  one 
errand  and  another,  and  was  going  out  again, 
when  her  mother  said : 

"  Oh,  by-the-way,  Evelyn,  at  last  we  have  got 
a  splendid  place  for  McDonald." 

Evelyn  turned,  not  exactly  comprehending. 
"  A  place  for  McDonald  ?  For  what  ?" 

"As  governess,  of  course.  With  Mrs.  Yan 
Cortlandt." 

"  What !  to  leave  us  ?"  The  girl  walked  back 
to  her  mother's  chair  and  stood  before  her  in  an 
attitude  of  wonder  and  doubt.  "  You  don't  mean, 
mamma,  that  she  is  going  away  for  good  ?" 

"  It  is  a  great  chance  for  her.  I  have  been 
anxious  for  some  time  about  employment  for  her, 
311 


THAT    FORTUNE 

now  that  you  do  not  need  a  governess — haven't 
really  for  a  year  or  two." 

"  But,  mamma,  it  can't  be.  She  is  part  of  us. 
She  belongs  to  the  family;  she  has  been  in  it 
almost  as  long  as  I  have.  Why,  I  have  been 
with  her  every  clay  of  my  life.  To  go  away? 
To  give  her  up  ?  Does  she  know  ?" 

"  Does  she  know  ?  What  a  child !  She  has  ac 
cepted  Mrs.  Yan  Cortlandt's  offer.  I  telegraphed 
for  her  this  morning.  To-morrow  she  goes  to 
town  to  get  her  belongings  together.  Mrs.  Yan 
Cortlandt  needs  her  at  once.  I  am  sorry  to  see, 
my  dear,  that  you  are  thinking  only  of  your 
self." 

"  Of  myself?"  The  girl  had  been  at  first  con 
fused,  and,  as  the  idea  forced  itself  upon  her  mind, 
she  felt  weak,  and  trembled,  and  was  deadly  pale. 
But  when  the  certainty  came,  the  enormity  and 
cruelty  of  the  dismissal  aroused  her  indignation. 
"  Myself !"  she  exclaimed  again.  Her  eyes  blazed 
with  a  wrath  new  to  their  tenderness,  and,  step 
ping  back  and  stamping  her  foot,  she  cried  out : 
"  She  shall  not  go !  It  is  unjust !  It  is  cruel !" 

Her  mother  had  never  seen  her  child  like  that. 
She  was  revealing  a  spirit  of  resistance,  a  tem 
per,  an  independence  quite  unexpected.  And 
yet  it  was  not  altogether  displeasing.  Mrs.  Ma- 
vick's  respect  for  her  involuntarily  rose.  And 
after  an  instant,  instead  of  responding  with  se- 
812 


THAT    FORTUNE 

verity,  as  was  her  first  impulse,  she  said,  very 
calmly : 

"Naturally,  Evelyn,  you  do  not  like  to  part 
with  her.  None  of  us  do.  But  go  to  your  room 
and  think  it  over  reasonably.  The  relations  of 
childhood  cannot  last  forever." 

Evelyn  stood  for  a  moment  undecided.  Her 
mother's  calm  self-control  had  not  deceived  her. 
She  was  no  longer  a  child.  It  was  a  woman 
reading  a  woman.  All  her  lifetime  came  back 
to  her  to  interpret  this  moment.  In  the  reac 
tion  of  the  second,  the  deepest  pain  was  no  long 
er  for  herself,  nor  even  for  Miss  McDonald,  but 
for  a  woman  who  showed  herself  so  insensible 
to  noble  feeling.  Protest  was  useless.  But  why 
was  the  separation  desired?  She  did  not  fully 
see,  but  her  instinct  told  her  that  it  had  a  rela 
tion  to  her  mother's  plans  for  her;  and  as  life 
rose  before  her  in  the  society,  in  the  world,  into 
which  she  was  newly  launched,  she  felt  that  she 
was  alone,  absolutely  alone.  She  tried  to  speak, 
but  before  she  could  collect  her  thoughts  her 
mother  said : 

"  There,  go  now.  It  is  useless  to  discuss  the 
matter.  We  all  have  to  learn  to  bear  things." 

Evelyn  went  away,  in  a  tumult  of  passion  and 
of  shame,  and  obeyed  her  impulse  to  go  where 
she  had  always  found  comfort. 

Miss  McDonald  was  in  her  own  room.  Her 
318 


THAT    FORTUNE 

trunk  was  opened.  She  had  taken  her  clothes 
from  the  closet.  She  was  opening  the  drawers 
and  laying  one  article  here  and  another  there. 
She  was  going  from  closet  to  bureau,  opening 
this  door  and  shutting  that  in  her  sitting-room 
and  bedroom,  in  an  aimless,  distracted  way.  Out 
of  her  efforts  nothing  had  so  far  come  but  con 
fusion.  It  seemed  an  impossible  dream  that  she 
was  actually  packing  up  to  go  away  forever. 

Evelyn  entered  in  a  haste  that  could  not  wait 
for  permission. 

"  Is  it  true  ?"  she  cried. 

McDonald  turned.  She  could  not  speak.  Her 
faithful  face  was  gray  with  suffering.  Her  eyes 
were  swollen  with  weeping.  For  an  instant  she 
seemed  not  to  comprehend,  and  then  a  flood  of 
motherly  feeling  overcame  her.  She  stretched 
out  her  arms  and  caught  the  girl  to  her  breast 
in  a  passionate  embrace,  burying  her  face  in  her 
neck  in  a  vain  effort  to  subdue  her  sobbing. 

What  was  there  to  say  ?  Evelyn  had  come  to 
her  refuge  for  comfort,  and  lo !  it  was  she  herself 
who  must  be  the  comforter. 

Presently  she  disengaged  herself  and  forced  the 
governess  into  an  easy  chair.  She  sat  down  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair  and  smoothed  her  hair  and 
kissed  her  again  and  again. 

"  There.  I'm  going  to  help  you.  You'll  see 
you  have  not  taught  me  for  nothing."  She 
814 


THAT    FORTUNE 

jumped  up  and  began  to  bustle  about.  "You 
don't  know  what  a  packer  I  am." 

"I  knew  it  must  come  some  time,"  she  was 
saying,  with  a  weary  air,  as  she  followed  with 
her  eyes  the  light  step  of  the  graceful  girl,  who 
was  beginning  to  sort  things  and  to  bring  order 
out  of  the  confusion,  holding  up  one  article  after 
another  and  asking  questions  with  an  enforced 
cheerfulness  that  was  more  pathetic  than  any 
burst  of  grief. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  There,  that  is  laid  in  smooth." 
She  pretended  to  be  thinking  what  to  put  in 
next,  and  suddenly  she  threw  herself  into  Mc 
Donald's  lap  and  began  to  talk  gayly.  "It  is  all 
my  fault,  dear;  I  should  have  stayed  little.  And 
it  doesn't  make  any  difference.  I  know  you  love 
me,  and  oh,  McDonald,  I  love  you  more,  a  hun 
dred  times  more,  than  ever.  If  you  did  not  love 
me !  Think  how  dreadful  that  would  be.  And 
we  shall  not  be  separated — only  by  streets,  don't 
you  know.  They  can't  separate  us.  I  know  you 
want  me  to  be  brave.  And  some  day,  perhaps" 
(and  she  whispered  in  her  ear — how  many  hun 
dred  times  had  she  told  her  girl  secrets  in  that 
way !), "  if  I  do  have  a  home  of  my  own,  then — " 

It   was   not   very   cheerful   talk,  however    it 

seemed  to  be,  but  it  was  better  than  silence,  and 

in  the  midst  of  it,  with  many  interruptions,  the 

packing  was  over,  and  some  sort  of  serenity  was 

315 


THAT    FORTUNE 

attained  even  by  Miss  McDonald.    "Yes,  dear 
heart,  we  have  love  and  trust  and  hope." 

But  when  the  preparations  were  all  made,  and 
Evelyn  went  to  her  own  room,  there  did  not  seem 
to  be  so  much  hope,  nor  any  brightness  in  the 
midst  of  this  first  great  catastrophe  of  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  great  Mavick  ball  at  Newport,  in  the 
summer  long  remembered  for  its  financial  dis 
asters,  was  very  much  talked  about  at  the  time. 
Long  after,  in  any  city  club,  a  man  was  sure  to 
have  attentive  listeners  if  he  began  his  story  or 
his  gossip  with  the  remark  that  he  was  at  the 
Mavick  ball. 

It  attracted  great  attention,  both  on  account 
of  the  circumstances  that  preceded  it  and  the 
events  which  speedily  followed,  and  threw  a  light 
upon  it  that  gave  it  a  spectacular  importance. 
The  city  journals  made  a  feature  of  it.  They 
summoned  their  best  artists  to  illustrate  it,  and 
illuminate  it  in  pen-and-ink,  half-tones,  startling 
colors,  and  photographic  reproductions,  sketches 
theatrical,  humorous,  and  poetic,  caricatures,  pict 
ures  of  tropical  luxury  and  aristocratic  preten 
sion;  in  short,  all  the  bewildering  affluence  of 
modern  art  which  is  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
a3sthetic  cultivation  of  the  lowest  popular  taste. 
They  summoned  their  best  novelists  to  throw 
themselves  recklessly  upon  the  English  language, 
317 


THAT    FORTUNE 

and  extort  from  it  its  highest  expression  in  color 
and  lyrical  beauty,  the  novelists  whose  mission 
it  is,  in  the  newspaper  campaign  against  realism, 
to  adorn  and  dramatize  the  commonest  events  of 
life,  creating  in  place  of  the  old-fashioned  "  news" 
the  highly  spiced  "story,"  which  is  the  ideal 
aspiration  of  the  reporter.  Whatever  may  be 
said  about  the  power  of  the  .press,  it  is  undeni 
able  that  it  can  set  the  entire  public  thinking 
and  talking  about  any  topic,  however  insignifi 
cant  in  itself,  that  it  may  elect  to  make  the  sensa 
tion  of  the  day — a  wedding,  a  murder,  a  political 
scandal,  a  divorce,  a  social  event,  a  defalcation,  a 
lost  child,  an  unidentified  victim  of  accident  or 
crime,  an  election,  or  that  undefined  quickener 
of  patriotism  called  a  casus  belli.  It  can  impose 
any  topic  it  pleases  upon  the  public  mind.  In 
case  there  is  no  topic,  it  is  necessary  to  make 
one,  for  it  is  an  indefeasible  right  of  the  public 
to  have  news. 

These  reports  of  the  Mavick  ball  had  a  peculiar 
interest  for  at  least  two  people  in  New  York. 
Murad  Ault  read  them  with  a  sardonic  smile  and 
an  enjoyment  that  would  not  have  been  called 
i  altruistic.  Philip  searched  them  with  the  fever 
ish  eagerness  of  a  maiden  who  scans  the  report 
of  a  battle  in  which  her  lover  has  been  engaged. 

All  summer  long  he  had  lived  upon  stray  bits 
of  newrs  in  the  society  columns  of  the  news- 

318 


THAT    FORTUNE 

papers.  To  see  Evelyn's  name  mentioned,  and 
only  rarely,  as  a  guest  at  some  entertainment, 
and  often  in  connection  with  that  of  Lord  Mon 
tague,  did  not  convey  much  information,  nor  was 
that  little  encouraging.  Was  she  well?  Was 
she  absorbed  in  the  life  of  the  season  ?  Did  she 
think  of  him  in  surroundings  so  brilliant?  Was 
she,  perhaps,  unhappy  and  persecuted  ?  No  tid 
ings  came  that  could  tell  him  the  things  that  he 
ached  to  know. 

Only  recently  intelligence  had  come  to  him 
that  at  the  same  time  wrung  his  heart  with  pity 
and  buoyed  him  up  with  hope.  He  had  not  seen 
Miss  McDonald  since  her  dismissal,  for  she  had 
been  only  one  night  in  the  city,  but  she  had 
written  to  him.  Believed  by  her  discharge  of 
all  obligations  of  silence,  she  had  written  him 
frankly  about  the  whole  affair,  and,  indeed,  put 
him  in  possession  of  unrecorded  details  and  in 
dications  that  filled  him  with  anxiety,  to  be 
sure,  but  raised  his  courage  and  strengthened 
his  determination.  If  Evelyn  loved  him,  he  had 
faith  that  no  manoeuvres  or  compulsion  could 
shake  her  loyalty.  And  yet  she  was  but  a  girl ; 
she  was  now  practically  alone,  and  could  she 
resist  the  family  and  the  social  pressure?  Few 
women  could,  few  women  do,  effectively  resist 
under  such  circumstances.  With  one  of  a  tender 
heart,  duty  often  takes  the  most  specious  and 
319 


THAT    FORTUNE 

deceiving  forms.  In  yielding  to  the  impulses 
of  her  heart,  which  in  her  inexperience  may  be 
mistaken,  has  a  girl  the  right — from  a  purely 
rational  point  of  view — to  set  herself  against, 
nay,  to  destroy,  the  long-cherished  ambitions  of 
her  parents  for  a  brilliant  social  career  for  her, 
founded  upon  social  traditions  of  success?  For 
what  had  Mr.  Mavick  toiled?  For  what  had 
Mrs.  Mavick  schemed  all  these  years?  Could 
the  girl  throw  herself  away?  Such  disobedience, 
such  disregard  for  social  law,  would  seem  im 
possible  to  her  mother. 

Some  of  the  events  that  preceded  the  Mavick 
ball  throw  light  upon  that  interesting  function. 
After  the  departure  of  Miss  McDonald,  Mrs. 
Mavick,  in  one  of  her  confidential  talks  with  her 
proposed  son-in-law,  confessed  that  she  experi 
enced  much  relief.  An  obstacle  seemed  to  be 
removed. 

In  fact,  Evelyn  rather  surprised  her  mother 
by  what  seemed  a  calm  acceptance  of  the  situa 
tion.  There  was  no  further  outburst.  If  the 
girl  was  often  preoccupied  and  seemed  listless, 
that  was  to  be  expected,  on  the  sudden  removal 
of  the  companion  of  her  lifetime.  But  she  did 
not  complain.  She  ceased  after  a  while  to  speak 
of  McDonald.  If  she  showed  little  enthusiasm 
in  what  was  going  on  around  her,  she  was  com 
pliant,  she  fell  in  at  once  with  her  mother's  sug- 
320 


THAT    FORTUNE 

gestions,  and  went  and  came  in  an  attitude  of 
entire  obedience. 

"  It  isn't  best  for  you  to  keep  up  a  correspond 
ence,  ray  dear,  now  that  you  know  that  Mc 
Donald  is  nicely  settled  —  all  reminiscent  corre 
spondence  is  very  Avearing — and,  really,  I  am 
more  than  delighted  to  see  that  you  are  quite 
capable  of  walking  alone.  Do  you  know,  Eve 
lyn,  that  I  am  more  and  more  proud  of  you  every 
day,  as  my  daughter.  I  don't  dare  to  tell  you 
half  the  nice  things  that  are  said  of  you.  It 
would  make  you  vain."  And  the  proud  mother 
kissed  her  affectionately.  The  letters  ceased. 
If  the  governess  wrote,  Evelyn  did  not  see  the 
letters. 

As  the  days  went  by,  Lord  Montague,  in  high, 
and  confident  spirits,  became  more  and  more  a 
familiar  inmate  of  the  house.  Daily  he  sent 
flowers  to  Evelyn ;  he  contrived  little  excursions 
and  suppers ;  he  was  marked  in  his  attentions 
wherever  they  went.  "  He  is  such  a  dear  fel 
low,"  said  Mrs.  Mavick  to  one  of  her  friends ;  "  I 
don't  know  how  we  should  get  on  without  him." 

Only,  in  the  house,  owing  to  some  unnatural 
perversity  of  circumstances,  he  did  not  see  much 
of  Evelyn,  never  alone  for  more  than  a  moment. 
It  is  wonderful  what  efficient,  though  invisible, 
defences  most  women,  when  they  will,  can  throw 
about  themselves. 

x  321 


THAT    FORTUNE 

That  the  affair  was  "arranged"  Lord  Mon 
tague  had  no  doubt.  It  was  not  conceivable  that 
the  daughter  of  an  American  stock-broker  would 
refuse  the  offer  of  a  position  so  transcendent  and 
so  evidently  coveted  in  a  democratic  society. 
Not  that  the  single-minded  young  man  reasoned 
about  it  this  way.  He  was  born  with  a  most 
comfortable  belief  in  himself  and  the  knowledge 
that  when  he  decided  to  become  a  domestic  man 
he  had  simply,  as  the  phrase  is,  to  throw  his  hand 
kerchief. 

At  home,  where  such  qualities  as  distinguished 
him  from  the  common  were  appreciated  with 
out  the  need  of  personal  exertion,  this  might  be 
true;  but  in  America  it  did  seem  to  be  some 
how  different.  American  women,  at  least  some  of 
them,  did  need  to  be  personally  wooed ;  and  many 
of  them  had  a  sort  of  independence  in  the  be 
stowal  of  their  affections  or,  what  they  under 
stood  to  be  the  same  thing,  themselves  that  must 
be  taken  into  account.  And  it  gradually  dawned 
upon  the  mind  of  this  inheritor  of  privilege  that 
in  this  case  the  approval  of  the  family,  even  the 
pressure  of  the  mother,  was  not  sufficient;  he 
must  have  also  Evelyn's  consent.  If  she  were  a 
mature  woman  who  knew  and  appreciated  the 
world,  she  would  perceive  the  advantages  offered 
to  her  without  argument.  But  a  girl,  just  re 
leased  from  the  care  of  her  governess,  unaccus- 

322 


THAT    FORTUNE 

tomed  to  society,  might  have  notions,  or,  in  the 
vernacular  of  the  scion,  might  be  skittish. 

And  then,  again,  to  do  the  wooer  entire  jus 
tice,  the  dark  little  girl,  so  much  mistress  of 
herself,  so  evidently  spirited,  with  such  an  air  of 
distinction,  began  to  separate  herself  in  his  mind 
as  a  good  goer  against  the  field,  and  he  had  a 
real  desire  to  win  her  affection.  The  more  in 
different  she  was  to  him,  the  keener  was  his  de 
sire  to  possess  her.  His  unsuccessful  wooing 
had  passed  through  several  stages,  first  aston 
ishment,  then  pique,  and  finally  something  very 
like  passion,  or  a  fair  semblance  of  devotion, 
backed,  of  course,  since  all  natures  are  more  or 
less  mixed,  by  the  fact  that  this  attractive  figure 
of  the  woman  was  thrown  into  high  relief  by  the 
colossal  fortune  behind  her. 

And  Evelyn  herself?  Neither  her  mother  nor 
her  suitor  appreciated  the  uncommon  circum 
stances  that  her  education,  her  whole  training  in 
familiarity  with  pure  and  lofty  ideals,  had  ren 
dered  her  measurably  insensible  to  the  social 
considerations  that  seemed  paramount  to  them, 
or  that  there  could  be  any  real  obstacle  to  the 
bestowal  of  her  person  where  her  heart  was  not 
engaged.  Yet  she  perfectly  understood  her  situ 
ation,  and,  at  times,  deprived  of  her  life-long 
support,  she  felt  powerless  in  it,  and  she  suf 
fered  as  only  the  pure  and  the  noble  can  suffer. 
323 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Day  after  day  she  fought  her  battle  alone,  now 
and  then,  as  the  situation  confronted  her,  assailed 
by  a  shudder  of  fear,  as  of  one  awakening  in  the 
night  from  a  dream  of  peril,  the  clutch  of  an 
assassin,  or  the  walking  on  an  icy  precipice.  If 
McDonald  were  only  with  her!  If  she  could 
only  hear  from  Philip !  Perhaps  he  had  lost 
hope  and  was  submitting  to  the  inevitable. 

The  opportunity  which  Lord  Montague  had 
long  sought  came  one  day  unexpectedly,  or  per 
haps  it  was  contrived.  They  were  waiting  in 
the  drawing-room  for  an  afternoon  drive.  The 
carriage  was  delayed,  and  Mrs.  Mavick  excused 
herself  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  the  delay. 
Evelyn  and  her  suitor  were  left  alone.  She  was 
standing  by  a  window  looking  out,  and  he  was 
standing  by  the  fireplace  watching  the  swing  of 
the  figure  on  the  pendulum  of  the  tall  mantel 
piece  clock.  He  was  the  first  to  break  the 
silence. 

"  Your  clock,  Miss  Mavick,  is  a  little  fast."  No 
reply.  "Or  else  I  am  slow."  Still  no  reply. 
"  They  say,  you  know,  that  I  am  a  little  slow, 
over  here."  No  reply.  "I  am  not,  really,  you 
know.  I  know  my  mind.  And  there  was  some 
thing,  Miss  Mavick,  something  particular,  that  I 
wanted  to  say  to  you." 

"  Yes  ?"  without  turning  round.  "  The  carriage 
will  be  here  in  a  minute/' 

824 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Never  mind  that,"  and  Lord  Montague  moved 
away  from  the  fireplace  and  approached  the  girl ; 
"take  care  of  the  minutes  and  the  hours  will 
take  care  of  themselves,  as  the  saying  is."  At 
this  unexpected  stroke  of  brilliancy  Evelyn  did 
turn  round,  and  stood  in  an  expectant  attitude. 
The  moment  had  evidently  come,  and  she  would 
not  meet  it  like  a  coward. 

"  We  have  been  friends  a  long  time ;  not  so 
very  long,  but  it  seems  to  me  the  best  part  of 
my  life" — he  was  looking  down  and  speaking 
slowly,  with  the  modest  deference  of  a  gentle 
man — "  and  you  must  have  seen,  that  is,  I  wanted 
you  to  see,  you  know — well,  that  is — er — what  I 
was  staying  on  here  for." 

"  Because  you  like  America,  I  suppose,"  said 
Evelyn,  coolly. 

"  Because  I  like  some  things  in  America — that 
is  just  the  fact,"  continued  the  little  lord,  with 
more  confidence.  "  And  that  is  why  I  stayed. 
You  see  I  couldn't  go  away  and  leave  what  was 
best  in  the  world  to  me." 

There  was  an  air  of  simplicity  and  sincerity 
about  this  that  was  unexpected,  and  could  not 
but  be  respected  by  any  woman.  But  Evelyn 
waited,  still  immovable. 

"It  wasn't  reasonable  that  you  should  like  a 
stranger  right  off,"  he  went  on,  "  just  at  first,  and 
I  waited  till  you  got  to  know  me  better.  Ways 

325 


THAT    FORTUNE 

are  different  here  and  over  there,  I  know  that, 
but  if  you  came  to  know  me,  Miss  Mavick,  you 
would  see  that  I  am  not  such  a  bad  sort  of  a 
fellow."  And  a  deprecatory  smile  lighted  up  his 
face  that  was  almost  pathetic.  To  Evelyn  this 
humility  seemed  genuine,  and  perhaps  it  was,  for 
the  moment.  Certainly  the  eyes  she  bent  on  the 
odd  little  figure  were  less  severe. 

"  All  this  is  painful  to  me,  Lord  Montague." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  continued,  in  the  same  tone. 
"  I  cannot  help  it.  I  must  say  it.  I — you  must 
know  that  I  love  you."  And  then,  not  heeding 
the  nervous  start  the  girl  gave  in  stepping  back 
ward,  "And — and,  will  you  be  my  wife?" 

"  You  do  me  too  much  honor,  Lord  Monta 
gue,"  said  Evelyn,  summoning  up  all  her  cour 
age. 

"  No,  no,  not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  good  opinion, 
but  you  know  I  am  almost  a  school -girl.  My 
governess  has  just  left  me.  I  have  never  thought 
of  such  a  thing.  And,  Lord  Montague,  I  cannot 
return  your  feeling.  That  is  all.  You  must  see 
how  painful  this  is  to  me." 

"I  wouldn't  give  you  pain,  Miss  Mavick,  not 
for  the  world.  Perhaps  when  you  think  it  over 
it  will  seem  different  to  you.  I  am  sure  it  will. 
Don't  answer  now,  for  good." 

"No,  no,  it  cannot  be,"  said  Evelyn,  with 
326 


THAT    FORTUNE 

something  of  alarm  in  her  tone,  for  the  full 
meaning  of  it  all  came  over  her  as  she  thought 
of  her  mother. 

"  You  are  not  offended  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  I  couldn't  bear  to  offend  you.  You  cannot 
think  I  would.  And  you  will  not  be  hard-hearted. 
You  know  me,  Miss  Mavick,  just  where  I  am. 
I'm  just  as  I  said." 

"  The  carriage  is  coming,"  said  Mrs.  Mavick, 
who  returned  at  this  moment. 

The  group  for  an  instant  was  silent,  and  then 
Evelyn  said: 

"  We  have  waited  so  long,  mamma,  that  I  am 
a  little  tired,  and  you  will  excuse  me  from,  the 
drive  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear." 

When  the  two  were  seated  in  the  carriage, 
Mrs.  Mavick  turned  to  Lord  Montague : 

"Well?" 

"No  go,"  replied  my  lord,  as  sententiously, 
and  in  evident  bad  humor. 

"  What  ?    And  you  made  a  direct  proposal  ?" 

"  Showed  her  my  whole  hand.  Made  a  square 
offer.  Damme,  I  am  not  used  to  this  sort  of 
thing." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  she  refused  you  ?" 

"Don't  know   what  you  call  it.     Wouldn't 

start." 

327 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"She  couldn't  have  understood  you.  "What 
did  she  say?" 

"Said  it  was  too  much  honor,  and  that  rot. 
By  Jove,  she  didn't  look  it.  I  rather  liked  her 
pluck.  She  didn't  flinch." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?"  And  Mrs.  Mavick  spoke  as 
if  her  mind  were  relieved.  "What  could  you 
expect  from  such  a  sudden  proposal  to  a  young 
girl,  almost  a  child,  wholly  unused  to  the  world? 
I  should  have  done  the  same  thing  at  her  age.  It 
will  look  different  to  her  when  she  reflects,  and 
understands  what  the  position  is  that  is  offered 
her.  Leave  that  to  me." 

Lord  Montague  shook  his  head  and  screwed 
up  his  keen  little  eyes.  His  mind  was  in  full 
play.  "  I  know  women,  Mrs.  Mavick,  and  I  tell 
you  there  is  something  behind  this.  Somebody 
has  been  in  the  stable."  The  noble  lord  usually 
dropped  into  slang  when  he  was  excited. 

"I  don't  understand  your  language,"  said  Mrs. 
Mavick,  straightening  herself  up  in  her  seat. 

"  I  beg  pardon.  It  is  just  a  way  of  speaking 
on  the  turf.  When  a  favorite  goes  lame  the 
morning  of  the  race,  we  know  some  one  has  been 
tampering  with  him.  I  tell  you  there  is  some 
one  else.  She  has  some  one  else  in  her  mind. 
That's  the  reason  of  it." 

"Nonsense,"  cried  Mrs.  Mavick,  with  the 
energy  of  conviction.  "  It's  impossible.  There  is 

328 


THAT    FORTUNE 

nobody,  couldn't  be  anybody.  She  has  led  a  se 
cluded  life  till  this  hour.  She  hasn't  a  fancy,  I 
know." 

"  I  hope  you  are  right,"  he  replied,  in  the  tone 
of  a  man  wishing  to  take  a  cheerful  view.  "  Per 
haps  I  don't  understand  American  girls." 

"I  think  I  do,"  she  said,  smiling.  "They  are 
generally  amenable  to  reason.  Evelyn  now  has 
something  definite  before  her.  I  am  glad  you 
proposed." 

And  this  was  the  truth.  Mrs.  Mavick  was 
elated.  So  far  her  scheme  was  completely  suc 
cessful.  As  to  Evelyn,  she  trusted  to  various  in 
fluences  she  could  bring  to  bear.  Ultimate  diso 
bedience  of  her  own  wishes  she  did  not  admit 
as  a  possible  thing. 

A  part  of  her  tactics  was  the  pressure  of  pub 
lic  opinion,  so  far  as  society  represents  it — that 
is,  what  society  expects.  And  therefore  it  hap 
pened  in  a  few  days  that  a  strong  suspicion  got 
about  that  Lord  Montague  had  proposed  formally 
to  the  heiress.  The  suspicion  was  strengthened 
by  appearances.  Mrs.  Mavick  did  not  deny  the 
rumor.  That  there  was  an  engagement  was  not 
affirmed,  but  that  the  honor  had  been  or  would 
be  declined  was  hardly  supposable. 

In  the  painful  interview  between  mother  and 
daughter  concerning  this  proposal,  Evelyn  had 
no  reason  to  give  for  her  opposition,  except  that 
329 


THAT    FORTUNE 

she  did  not  love  him.  This  point  Mrs.  Mavick 
skilfully  evaded  and  minimized.  Of  course  she 
would  love  him  in  time.  The  happiest  marriages 
were  founded  on  social  fitness  and  the  judgment 
of  parents,  and  not  on  the  inexperienced  fancies 
of  young  girls.  And  in  this  case  things  had  gone 
too  far  to  retreat.  Lord  Montague's  attentions 
had  been  too  open  and  undisguised.  He  had 
been  treated  almost  as  a  son  by  the  house.  So 
ciety  looked  upon  the  affair  as  already  settled. 
Had  Evelyn  reflected  on  the  mortification  that 
would  fall  upon  her  mother  if  she  persisted  in 
her  unreasonable  attitude?  And  Mrs.  Mavick 
shed  actual  tears  in  thinking  upon  her  own  hu 
miliation. 

The  ball  which  followed  these  private  events 
was  also  a  part  of  Mrs.  Mavick's  superb  tactics. 
It  would  be  in  a  way  a  verification  of  the  public 
rumors  and  a  definite  form  of  pressure  which 
public  expectation  would  exercise  upon  the  lonely 
girl. 

The  splendor  of  this  function  is  still  remem 
bered.  There  were,  however,  features  in  the 
glowing  descriptions  of  it  which  need  to  be  men 
tioned.  It  was  assumed  that  it  was  for  a  pur 
pose,  that  it  was  in  fact,  if  not  a  proclamation, 
at  least  an  intimation  of  a  new  and  brilliant 
Anglo-Saxon  alliance.  No  one  asserted  that  an 
engagement  existed.  But  the  prominent  figures 


THAT    FORTUNE 

in  the  spectacle  were  the  English  lord  and  the 
young  and  beautiful  American  heiress.  There 
were  portraits  of  both  in  half-tone.  The  full 
names  and  titles  expectant  of  Lord  Montague  were 
given,  a  history  of  the  dukedom  of  Tewkesbury 
and  its  ancient  glory,  with  the  long  line  of  noble 
names  allied  to  the  young  lord,  who  was  a  social 
star  of  the  first  magnitude,  a  great  traveller,  a 
sportsman  of  the  stalwart  race  that  has  the 
world  for  its  field.  ("  Poor  little  Monte,"  said 
the  managing  editor  as  he  passed  along  these 
embellishments  with  his  approval.) 

On  the  other  hand,  the  proposed  alliance  was 
no  fall  in  dignity  or  family  to  the  English  house. 
The  heiress  was  the  direct  descendant  of  the 
Eschelles,  an  old  French  family,  distinguished 
in  camp  and  court  in  the  glorious  days  of  the 
Grand  Monarch. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

PROBABLY  no  man  ever  wrote  and  published 
a  book,  a  magazine  story,  or  a  bit  of  verse  with 
out  an  instant  decision  to  repeat  the  experiment. 
The  inclination  once  indulged  becomes  insatiable. 
It  is  not  altogether  the  gratified  vanity  of  seeing 
one's  self  in  print,  for,  before  printing  was,  the 
composers  and  reciters  of  romances  and  songs 
were  driven  along  the  same  path  of  unrest  and 
anxiety,  when  once  they  had  the  least  recogni 
tion  of  their  individual  distinction.  The  impulse 
is  more  subtle  than  the  desire  for  wealth  or  the 
craving  for  political  place.  In  some  cases  it  is 
in  simple  obedience  to  the  longing  to  create ;  in 
others  it  is  a  lower  ambition  for  notoriety,  for 
praise. 

In  any  case  the  experiment  of  authorship,  in 
however  humble  a  way,  has  an  analogy  to  that 
other  tempting  occupation  of  making  "  invest 
ments  "  in  the  stock  -  market :  the  first  trial  is 
certain  to  lead  to  another.  If  the  author  suc 
ceeds  in  any  degree,  his  spirit  rises  to  another 
attempt  in  the  hope  of  a  wider  recognition.  If 
332 


THAT    FORTUNE 

he  fails,  that  is  a  reason  why  he  should  convince 
his  fellows  that  the  failure  was  not  inherent  in 
himself,  but  in  ill-luck  or  a  misdirection  of  his 
powers.  And  the  experiment  has  another  anal 
ogy  to  the  noble  occupation  of  levying  toll  upon 
the  change  of  values — a  first  brilliant  success 
is  often  a  misfortune,  inducing  an  overestimate 
of  capacity,  while  a  very  moderate  success,  recog 
nized  indeed  only  as  a  trial,  steadies  a  man,  and 
sets  him  upon  that  serious  diligence  upon  which 
alone,  either  in  art  or  business,  any  solid  fortune 
is  built. 

Philip  was  fortunate  in  that  his  first  novel 
won  him  a  few  friends  and  a  little  recognition, 
but  no  popularity.  It  excited  neither  envy  nor 
hostility.  In  the  perfunctory  and  somewhat 
commercial  good  words  it  received,  he  recog 
nized  the  good-nature  of  the  world.  In  the  few 
short  reviews  that  dealt  seriously  with  his  work, 
he  was  able,  when  the  excitement  of  seeing  him 
self  discussed  had  subsided,  to  read  between  the 
lines  why  The  Puritan  Nun  had  failed  to  make 
a  larger  appeal.  It  was  idyllic  and  poetic,  but 
it  lacked  virility;  it  lacked  also  simplicity  in 
dealing  with  the  simple  and  profound  facts  of 
life.  He  had  been  too  solicitous  to  express  him 
self,  to  write  beautifully,  instead  of  letting  the 
human  emotions  with  which  he  had  to  deal  show 
themselves.  One  notice  had  said  that  it  was  too 
338 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  literary";  by  which,  of  course,  the  critic  meant 
that  he  did  not  follow  the  solid  traditions,  the 
essential  elements  in  all  the  great  masterpieces 
of  literature  that  have  been  created.  And  yet 
he  had  shown  a  quality,  a  facility,  a  promise, 
that  had  gained  him  a  foothold  and  a  support  in 
the  world  of  books  and  of  the  making  of  books. 
And  though  he  had  declined  Mr.  Ault's  tempt 
ing  offer  to  illuminate  his  transcontinental  road 
with  a  literary  torch,  he  none  the  less  was  pleased 
with  this  recognition  of  his  capacity  and  the 
value  of  his  name. 

To  say  that  Philip  lived  on  hope  during  this 
summer  of  heat,  suspensions,  and  business  de 
rangement  would  be  to  allow  him  a  too  substan 
tial  subsistence.  Evelyn,  indeed,  seemed,  at  the 
distance  of  Newport,  more  unattainable  than 
ever,  and  the  scant  news  he  had  of  the  drama 
enacted  there  was  a  perpetual  notice  to  him  of 
the  social  gulf  that  lay  between  them.  And  yet 
his  dream  was  sustained  by  occasional  assurances 
from  Miss  McDonald  of  her  confidence  in  Eve 
lyn's  belief  in  him,  nay,  of  her  trust,  and  she 
even  Avent  so  far  as  to  say  affection.  So  he  went 
on  building  castles  in  the  air,  which  melted  and 
were  renewed  day  after  day,  like  the  transient 
but  unfailing  splendor  of  the  sunset. 

There  was  a  certain  exaltation  in  this  indul 
gence  of  his  passion  that  stimulated  his  creative 
334 


THAT    FORTUNE 

faculties,  and,  while  his  daily  tasks  kept  him  from 
being  morbid,  his  imagination  was  free  to  play 
with  the  construction  of  a  new  story,  to  which 
his  recent  experience  would  give  a  certain  solid 
ity  and  a  knowledge  of  the  human  struggle  as 
it  is.  He  found  himself  observing  character 
more  closely  than  before,  looking  for  it  not  so 
much  in  books  as  in  the  people  he  met.  There 
was  Murad  Ault,  for  instance.  How  he  would 
like  to  put  him  into  a  book !  Of  course  it  would 
not  do  to  copy  a  model,  raw,  like  that,  but  he 
fell  to  studying  his  traits,  trying  to  see  the  com 
mon  humanity  exhibited  in  him.  Was  he  a  type 
or  was  he  a  freak?  This  was,  however,  too  dan 
gerous  ground  until  he  knew  more  of  life. 

The  week's  vacation  allowed  him  by  his  house 
was  passed  in  Rivervale.  There,  in  the  calmness 
of  country  life,  and  in  the  domestic  atmosphere 
of  affection  which  believed  in  him,  he  was  far 
enough  removed  from  the  scene  of  the  spectres 
of  his  imagination  to  see  them  in  proper  per 
spective,  and  there  the  lines  of  his  new  venture 
were  laid  down,  to  be  worked  out  later  on,  he 
well  knew,  in  the  anxiety  and  the  toil  which 
should  endue  the  skeleton  with  life.  Rivervale, 
to  be  sure,  was  haunted  by  the  remembrance  of 
Evelyn  ;  very  often  the  familiar  scenes  filled  him 
with  an  intolerable  longing  to  see  again  the  eyes 
that  had  inspired  him,  to  hear  the  voice  that  was 
335 


THAT    FORTUNE 

like  no  other  in  the  world,  to  take  the  little  hand 
that  had  often  been  so  frankly  placed  in  his,  and 
to  draw  to  him  the  form  in  which  was  embodied 
all  the  grace  and  tender  witchery  of  womanhood. 
But  the  knowledge  of  what  she  expected  of  him 
was  an  inspiration,  always  present  in  his  visions 
of  her. 

Something  of  his  hopes  and  fears  Alice  divined, 
and  he  felt  her  sympathy,  although  she  did  not 
intrude  upon  his  reticence  by  any  questions. 
They  talked  about  Evelyn,  but  it  was  Evelyn  in 
Rivervale,  not  in  Newport.  In  fact,  the  sensible 
girl  could  regard  her  cousin's  passion  as  nothing 
more  than  a  romance  in  a  young  author's  life, 
and  to  her  it  was  a  sign  of  his  security  that  he 
had  projected  a  new  story.  With  instinctive 
perception  of  his  need,  she  was  ever  turning  his 
thoughts  upon  his  literary  career.  Of  course  she 
and  all  the  household  seemed  in  a  conspiracy  to 
flatter  and  encourage  the  vanity  of  authorship. 
Was  not  all  the  village  talking  about  the  repu 
tation  he  had  conferred  on  it  ?  Was  it  not  proud 
of  him?  Indeed,  it  did  imagine  that  the  world 
outside  of  Rivervale  was  very  much  interested 
in  him,  and  that  he  was  already  an  author  of 
distinction.  The  county  Gazette  had  announced, 
as  an  important  piece  of  news,  that  the  author  of 
The  Puritan  Nun  was  on  a  visit  to  his  rela 
tives,  the  Maitlands.  This  paragraph  seemed  to 

336 


THAT    FORTUNE 

stand  out  in  the  paper  as  an  almost  immodest 
exposure  of  family  life,  read  furtively  at  first, 
and  not  talked  of,  and  yet  every  member  of  the 
family  was  conscious  of  an  increase  in  the  fam 
ily  importance.  Aunt  Patience  discovered,  from 
her  outlook  on  the  road,  that  summer  visitors 
had  a  habit  of  driving  or  walking  past  the  house 
and  then  turning  back  to  look  at  it  again. 

So  Philip  was  not  only  distinguished,  but  he 
had  the  power  of  conferring  distinction.  No  one 
can  envy  a  young  author  this  first  taste  of  fame, 
this  home  recognition.  Whatever  he  may  do 
hereafter,  how  much  more  substantial  rewards 
he  may  attain,  this  first  sweetness  of  incense  to 
his  ambition  will  never  come  to  him  again. 

When  Philip  returned  to  town,  the  city  was 
still  a  social  desert,  and  he  plunged  into  the  work 
piled  up  on  his  desk,  the  never-ceasing  accumu 
lation  of  manuscripts,  most  of  them  shells  which 
the  workers  have  dredged  up  from  the  mud  of 
the  literary  ocean,  in  which  the  eager  publisher 
is  always  expecting  to  find  pearls.  Even  Celia 
was  still  in  the  country,  and  Philip's  hours  spared 
from  drudgery  were  given  to  the  new  story.  His 
days,  therefore,  passed  without  incident,  but  not 
without  pleasure.  For  whatever  annoyances  the 
great  city  may  have  usually,  it  is  in  the  dull 
season — that  is,  the  season  of  its  summer  out-of- 
doors  animation — a  most  attractive  and  even  stim- 
Y  337 


THAT    FORTUNE 

ulating  place  for  the  man  who  has  an  absorbing 
pursuit,  say  a  work  in  creative  fiction.  Undis 
turbed  by  social  claims  or  public  interests,  the 
very  noise  and  whirl  of  the  gay  metropolis  seem 
to  hem  him  in  and  protect  the  world  of  his  own 


imagination. 


The  first  disturbing  event  in  this  serenity  was 
the  report  of  the  Mavick  ball,  already  referred 
to,  and  the  interpretation  put  upon  it  by  the 
newspapers.  In  this  light  his  plans  seemed  the 
merest  moonshine.  What  became  of  his  falla 
cious  hope  of  waiting  when  events  were  driving 
on  at  this  rate  ?  What  chance  had  he  in  such  a 
social  current  ?  Would  Evelyn  be  strong  enough 
to  stem  it  and  to  wait  also?  And  to  wait  for 
what?  For  the  indefinite  and  improbable  event 
of  a  poor  author,  hardly  yet  recognized  as  an 
author,  coming  into  position,  into  an  income  (for 
that  was  the  weak  point  in  his  aspirations)  that 
would  not  be  laughed  at  by  the  millionaire. 
When  he  coolly  considered  it,  was  it  reasonable 
to  expect  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mavick  would  ever 
permit  Evelyn  to  throw  away  the  brilliant  op 
portunity  for  their  daughter  which  was  to  be 
the  crowning  end  of  their  social  ambition  ?  The 
mere  statement  of  the  proposition  was  enough 
to  overwhelm  him. 

That  this  would  be  the  opinion  of  the  world 
he  could  not  doubt.  He  felt  very  much  alone. 
338 


THAT    FORTUNE 

It  was  not,  however,  in  any  resolve  to  make  a 
confidante  of  Celia,  but  in  an  absolute  need  of 
companionship,  that  he  went  to  see  if  she  had 
returned.  That  he  had  any  personal  interest  in 
this  ball  he  did  not  intend  to  let  Celia  know,  but 
talk  with  somebody  he  must.  Of  his  deep  affec 
tion  for  this  friend  of  his  boyhood,  there  was  no 
doubt,  nor  of  his  knowledge  of  her  devotion  to 
his  interests.  Why,  then,  was  he  reserved  with 
her  upon  the  absorbing  interest  of  his  life  ? 

Celia  had  returned,  before  the  opening  of  the 
medical  college,  full  of  a  new  idea.  This  was 
nothing  new  in  her  restless  nature  ;  but  if  Philip 
had  not  been  blinded  by  the  common  selfishness. 
of  his  sex,  he  might  have  seen  in  the  gladness  of 
her  welcome  of  him  something  more  than  mere 
sisterly  affection. 

"  Are  you  real  glad  to  see  me,  Phil  ?  I  thought 
you  might  be  lonesome  by  this  time  in  the  de 
serted  city." 

"  I  was,  horribly."  He  was  still  holding  her 
hand.  "  Without  a  chance  to  talk  with  you  or 
Alice,  I  am  quite  an  orphan." 

"Ah !  You  or  Alice !"  A  shade  of  disappoint 
ment  came  over  her  face  as  she  dropped  his 
hand.  But  she  rallied  in  a  moment. 

"Poor  boy!  You  ought  to  have  a  guardian. 
What  heroine  of  romance  are  you  running  after 
now?" 

339 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  In  my  new  story  ?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  She  isn't  very  well  defined  in  ray  mind  yet. 
But  a  lovely  girl,  without  anything  peculiar,  no 
education  to  speak  of,  or  career,  fascinating  in 
her  womanhood,  such  as  might  walk  out  of  the 
Bible.  Don't  you  think  that  would  be  a  novelty? 
But  it  is  the  most  difficult  to  do." 

"  Negative.  That  sort  has  gone  out.  Philip, 
why  don't  you  take  the  heroine  of  the  Mavick 
ball?  There  is  a  theme."  She  was  watching 
him  shrewdly,  and  saw  the  flush  in  his  face  as 
he  hurriedly  asked, 

"  Did  you  ever  see  her?" 

"  Only  at  a  distance.  But  you  must  know  her 
well  enough  for  a  literary  purpose.  The  reports 
of  the  ball  give  you  the  setting  of  the  drama." 

"  Did  you  read  them  ?" 

"  I  should  say  I  did.     Most  amusing." 

"Celia,  don't  you  think  it  would  be  an  un- 
gentlemanly  thing  to  take  a  social  event  like 
that?" 

"  Why,  you  must  take  life  as  it  is.  Of  course 
you  would  change  the  details.  You  could  lay  the 
scene  in  Philadelphia.  Nobody  would  suspect 
you  then." 

Philip  shook  his  head.  The  conversation  was 
not  taking  the  turn  that  was  congenial  to  him. 
The  ball  seemed  to  him  a  kind  of  maelstrom  in 
340 


THAT    FORTUNE 

which  all  his  hopes  were  likely  to  be  wrecked. 
And  here  was  his  old  friend,  the  keenest-sighted 
woman  he  knew,  looking  upon  it  simply  as  liter 
ary  material — a  ridiculous  social  event.  He  had 
better  change  the  subject. 

"  So,  the  college  is  not  open  yet  ?" 

"  No,  I  came  back  because  I  had  a  new  idea, 
and  wanted  time  to  look  around.  We  haven't 
got  quite  the  right  idea  in  our  city  missions. 
They  have  another  side.  We  need  country  mis 
sions." 

"  Aren't  they  that  now  ?" 

"  JSio,  I  mean  for  the  country.  I've  been  about 
a  good  deal  all  this  vacation,  and  my  ideas  are 
confirmed.  The  country  towns  and  villages  are 
full  of  young  hoodlums  and  toughs,  and  all  sorts 
of  wickedness.  They  could  be  improved  by 
sending  city  boys  up  there — yes,  and  girls  of 
tender  age.  I  don't  mean  the  worst  ones,  not 
altogether.  The  young  of  a  certain  low  class 
growing  up  in  the  country  are  even  worse  than 
the  same  class  in  the  city,  and  they  lack  a  civil 
ity  of  manner  which  is  pretty  sure  to  exist  in  a 
city-bred  person." 

"  If  the  country  is  so  bad,  why  send  any  more 
unregenerates  into  it?" 

"  How  do  you  know  that  anybody  is  always  to 
be  unregenerate  ?  But  I  wouldn't  send  thieves 
and  imbeciles.  I  would  select  children  of  some 
841 


THAT    FORTUNE 

capacity,  whose  circumstances  are  against  them 
where  they  are,  and  I  am  sure  they  would  make 
better  material  than  a  good  deal  of  the  young 
generation  in  country  villages  now.  This  is 
what  I  mean  by  a  mission  for  the  country.  "We 
have  been  bending  all  our  efforts  to  the  reforma 
tion  of  the  cities.  What  we  need  to  go  at  now  is 
the  reforming  of  the  country." 

"  You  have  taken  a  big  contract,"  said  Philip, 
smiling  at  her  enthusiasm.  "  Don't  you  intend 
to  go  on  with  medicine  ?" 

"  Certainly.  At  least  far  enough  to  be  of 
some  use  in  breaking  up  people's  ignorance  about 
their  own  bodies.  Half  the  physical  as  well  as 
moral  misery  comes  from  ignorance.  Didn't  I 
always  tell  you  that  I  want  to  know  ?  A  good 
many  of  my  associates  pretend  to  be  agnostics, 
neither  believe  or  disbelieve  in  anything.  The 
further  I  go  the  more  I  am  convinced  that  there 
is  a  positive  basis  for  things.  They  talk  about  the 
religion  of  humanity.  I  tell  you,  Philip,  that  hu 
manity  is  pretty  poor  stuff  to  build  a  religion  on." 

The  talk  was  wandering  far  away  from  what 
was  in  Philip's  mind,  and  presently  Celia  per 
ceived  his  want  of  interest. 

"  There,  that  is  enough  about  myself.  I  want 
to  know  all  about  you,  your  visit  to  Rivervale, 
how  the  publishing  house  suits  you,  how  the 
story  is  growing." 

342 


THAT    FORTUNE 

And  Philip  talked  about  himself,  and  the 
rumors  in  Wall  Street,  and  Mr.  Ault  and  his 
offer,  and  at  last  about  the  Mavicks — he  could 
not  help  that — until  he  felt  that  Celia  was  what 
she  had  always  been  to  him,  and  when  he  went 
away  he  held  her  hand  and  said  what  a  dear, 
sweet  friend  she  was. 

And  when  he  had  gone  Celia  sat  a  long  time 
by  the  window,  not  seeing  much  of  the  hot  street 
into  which  she  looked,  until  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THERE  was  one  man  in  New  York  who  thor 
oughly  enjoyed  the  summer,  Murad  Ault  was, 
as  we  say  of  a  man  who  is  free  to  indulge  his 
natural  powers,  in  his  element.  There  are  in 
genious  people  who  think  that  if  the  ordering  of 
nature  had  been  left  to  them,  they  could  main 
tain  moral  conditions,  or  at  least  restore  a  dis 
turbed  equilibrium,  without  violence,  without 
calling  in  the  aid  of  cyclones  and  of  uncontrol 
lable  electric  displays,  in  order  to  clear  the  air. 
There  are  people  also  who  hold  that  the  moral 
atmosphere  of  the  world  does  not  require  the  oc 
casional  intervention  of  Murad  Ault. 

The  conceit  is  flattering  to  human  nature,  but 
it  is  not  borne  out  by  the  performance  of  human 
nature  in  what  is  called  the  business  world, 
which  is  in  such  intimate  alliance  with  the  social 
world  in  such  great  centres  of  conflict  as  Lon 
don,  New  York,  or  Chicago.  Mr.  Ault  is  every 
where  an  integral  and  necessary  part  of  the  pre 
vailing  system — that  is,  the  system  by  which  the 
moral  law  is  applied  to  business.  The  system, 
344 


THAT    FORTUNE 

perhaps,  cannot  be  defended,  but  it  cannot  be  ex 
plained  without  Mr.  Ault.  We  may  argue  that 
such  a  man  is  a  disturber  of  trade,  of  legitimate 
operations,  of  the  fairest  speculations,  but  when 
we  see  how  uniform  he  is  as  a  phenomenon,  we 
bemn  to  be  convinced  that  he  is  somehow  in- 

O 

dispensable  to  the  system  itself.  We  cannot  ex 
actly  understand  why  a  cyclone  should  pick  up 
a  peaceful  village  in  Nebraska  and  deposit  it  in 
Kansas,  where  there  is  already  enough  of  that 
sort,  but  we  cannot  conceive  of  Wall  Street  con 
tinuing  to  be  Wall  Street  unless  it  were  now  and 
then  visited  by  a  powerful  adjuster  like  Mr.  Ault. 
The  advent,  then,  of  Murad  Ault  in  New 
York  was  not  a  novelty,  but  a  continuation  of 
like  phenomena  in  the  Street,  ever  since  the  day 
when  ingenious  men  discovered  that  the  ability 
to  guess  correctly  which  of  two  sparrows,  sold 
for  a  farthing,  lighting  on  the  spire  of  Trinity 
Church,  will  fly  first,  is  an  element  in  a  success 
ful  and  distinguished  career.  There  was  nothing 
peculiar  in  kind  in  his  career,  only  in  the  force 
exhibited  which  lifted  him  among  the  few  whose 
destructive  energy  the  world  condones  and  ad 
mires  as  Napoleonic.  He  may  have  been  an  in 
strument  of  Providence.  When  we  do  not  know 
exactly  what  to  do  with  an  exceptional  man 
who  is  disagreeable,  we  call  him  an  Instrument 
of  Providence. 

345 


THAT    FORTUNE 

It  is  not,  then,  in  anything  exceptional  that  we 
are  interested  in  the  operations  of  Murad  Ault, 
but  simply  on  account  of  his  fortuitous  connec 
tion  with  a  great  fortune  which  had  its  origin 
in  very  much  the  same  cyclonic  conditions  that 
Mr.  Ault  revelled  in.  Those  who  know  Wall 
Street  best,  by  reason  of  sad  experience,  say  that 
the  presiding  deity  there  is  not  the  Chinese 
god,  Luck,  but  the  awful  pagan  deity,  Nemesis. 
Alas!  ho\v  many  innocent  persons  suffer  in  order 
to  get  justice  done  in  this  world. 

Those  who  have  unimpaired  memories  may 
recollect  the  fortune  amassed,  many  years  pre 
vious  to  this  history,  by  one  Rodney  Henderson, 
gathered  and  enlarged  by  means  not  indictable, 
but  which  illustrate  the  wide  divergence  between 
the  criminal  code  and  the  moral  law.  This  fort 
une,  upon  the  sudden  death  of  its  creator,  had 
been  largely  diverted  from  its  charitable  desti 
nation  by  fraud,  by  a  crime  that  would  have 
fallen  within  the  code  if  it  had  been  known. 
This  fortune  had  been  enjoyed  by  those  who 
seized  it  for  many  years  of  great  social  success, 
rising  into  acknowledged  respectability  and  dis 
tinction  ;  and  had  become  the  basis  of  the  chance 
of  social  elevation,  which  is  dear  to  the  hearts  of 
so  many  excellent  people,  who  are  compelled  to 
wander  about  in  a  chaotic  society  that  has  no 
hereditary  titles.  It  was  this  fortune,  the  stake 
346 


THAT    FORTUNE 

in  such  an  ambition,  or  perhaps  destined  in  a 
new  possessor  to  a  nobler  one,  that  came  in  the 
way  of  Mr.  Ault's  extensive  schemes. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  infer  that  Mr.  Ault  was 
originally  actuated  by  any  greed  as  to  this  special 
accumulation  of  property,  or  that  he  had  any 
malevolence  towards  Mr.  Mavick ;  but  the  eager 
ness  of  his  personal  pursuit  led  him  into  collisions. 
There  were  certain  possessions  of  Mr.  Mavick 
that  were  desirable  for  the  rounding- out  of  his 
plans — these  graspings  were  many  of  them  under 
stood  by  the  public  as  necessary  to  the  "  develop 
ment  of  a  system  " — and  in  this  collision  of  in 
terests  and  fierce  strength  a  vindictive  feeling 
was  engendered,  a  feeling  born,  as  has  been 
hinted,  by  Mr.  Mavick's  attempt  to  trick  his 
temporary  ally  in  a  certain  operation,  so  that  Mr. 
Ault's  main  purpose  was  to  "down  Mavick." 
This  was  no  doubt  an  exaggeration  concerning  a 
man  with  so  many  domestic  virtues  as  Mr.  Ault, 
meaning  by  domestic  virtues  indulgence  of  his 
family ;  but  a  fight  for  place  or  property  in  poli 
tics  or  in  the  Street  is  pretty  certain  to  take  on 
a  personal  character. 

We  can  understand  now  why  Mr.  Ault  read 
the  accounts  of  the  Mavick  ball  with  a  grim 
smile.  In  speaking  of  it  he  used  the  vulgar  term 
"  splurge,"  a  word  especially  offensive  to  the  re 
fined  society  in  which  the  Mavicks  had  gained  a 
347 


THAT    FORTUNE 

foothold.  And  yet  the  word  was  on  the  lips  of 
a  great  many  men  on  the  Street.  The  shifting 
application  of  sympathy  is  a  very  queer  thing  in 
this  world.  Mr.  Ault  was  not  a  snob.  "What 
ever  else  he  was,  he  made  few  pretensions.  In 
his  first  advent  he  had  been  resisted  as  an  in 
truder  and  shunned  as  a  vulgarian ;  but  in  time 
respect  for  his  force  and  luck  mingled  with  fear 
of  his  reckless  talent,  and  in  the  course  of  events 
it  began  to  be  admitted  that  the  rough  diamond 
was  being  polished  into  one  of  the  corner-stones 
of  the  great  business  edifice.  At  the  time  of  this 
writing  he  did  not  altogether  lack  the  sympathy 
of  the  Street,  and  an  increasing  number  of  people 
were  not  sorry  to  see  Mr.  Mavick  get  the  worst 
of  it  in  repeated  trials  of  strength.  And  in  each 
of  these  trials  it  became  increasingly  difficult  for 
Mr.  Mavick  to  obtain  the  assistance  and  the  credit 
which  are  often  indispensable  to  the  strongest 
men  in  a  panic. 

The  truth  was  that  there  were  many  men  in 
the  Street  who  were  not  sorry  to  see  Mr.  Mavick 
worried.  They  remembered  perfectly  well  the 
omniscient  snobbishness  of  Thomas  Mavick  when 
he  held  a  position  in  the  State  Department  at 
Washington  and  was  at  the  same  time  a  secret 
agent  of  Rodney  Henderson.  They  did  not 
change  their  opinion  of  him  when,  by  his  alli 
ance  with  Mrs.  Henderson,  he  stepped  into  con- 

348 


THAT    FORTUNE 

trol  of  Mr.  Henderson's  property  and  obtained 
the  mission  to  Rome ;  but  later  on  he  had  been 
accepted  as  one  of  the  powers  in  the  financial 
world.  There  were  a  few  of  the  old  stagers  who 
never  trusted  him.  Uncle  Jerry  Hollo  well,  for 
instance,  used  to  say,  "  Mavick  is  smart,  smart  as 
lightnin' ;  I  guess  he'll  make  ducks  and  drakes 
of  the  Henderson  property."  They  are  very  su 
perficial  observers  of  Wall  Street  who  think  that 
character  does  not  tell  there.  Mr.  Mavick  may 
have  realized  that  when  in  his  straits  he  looked 
around  for  assistance. 

The  history  of  this  panic  summer  in  New  York 
would  not  be  worthy  the  reader's  attention  were 
not  the  fortunes  of  some  of  his  acquaintances  in 
volved  in  it.  It  was  not  more  intense  than  the 
usual  panics,  but  it  lasted  longer  on  account  of 
the  complications  with  uncertain  government 
policy,  and  it  produced  stagnation  in  social  as 
well  as  business  circles.  So  quiet  a  place  as  Riv- 
ervale  felt  it  in  the  diminution  of  city  visitors, 
and  the  great  resorts  showed  it  in  increased  civil- 

o 

ity  to  the  small  number  of  guests. 

The  summer  at  Newport,  which  had  not  been 
distinguished  by  many  great  events,  was  drawing 
to  a  close — that  is,  it  was  in  the  period  when  those 
who  really  loved  the  charming  promenade  which 
is  so  loved  of  the  sea  began  to  enjoy  themselves, 
and  those  who  indulge  in  the  pleasures  of  hope, 
349 


THAT    FORTUNE 

based  upon  a  comfortable  matrimonial  establish 
ment,  are  reckoning  up  the  results  of  the  cam 
paign. 

Mrs.  Mavick,  according  to  her  own  assertion, 
was  one  of  those  who  enjoy  nature.  "  Nature 
and  a  few  friends,  not  too  many,  only  those  whom 
one  trusts  and  who  are  companionable,"  she  had 
said  to  Lord  Montague. 

This  young  gentleman  had  found  the  pursuit 
of  courtship  in  America  attended  by  a  good 
many  incidental  social  luxuries.  It  had  been  a 
wise  policy  to  impress  him  with  the  charm  of  a 
society  which  has  unlimited  millions  to  make  it 
attractive.  Even  to  an  impecunious  noble  there 
is  a  charm  in  this,  although  the  society  itself  has 
some  of  the  lingering  conditions  of  its  money 
origin.  But  since  the  great  display  of  the  ball, 
and  the  legitimate  inferences  drawn  from  it  by 
the  press  and  the  fashionable  world,  Mrs.  Mavick 
had  endeavored  to  surround  her  intended  son-in- 
law  with  the  toils  of  domestic  peace. 

He  must  be  made  to  feel  at  home.  And  this 
she  did.  Mrs.  Mavick  was  as  admirable  in  the 
role  of  a  domestic  woman  as  of  a  woman  of  the 
world.  The  simple  pleasures,  the  confidences, 
the  intimacies  of  home  life  surrounded  him.  His 
own  mother,  the  aged  duchess,  could  not  have 
looked  upon  him  with  more  affection,  and  possi 
bly  not  have  pampered  him  with  so  many  luxu- 
350 


THAT    FORTUNE 

ries.  There  was  only  one  thing  wanting  to  make 
this  home  complete.  In  conventional  Europe 
the  contracting  parties  are  not  the  signers  of  the 
marriage  contract.  In  the  United  States  the  par 
ties  most  interested  take  the  initiative  in  making 
the  contract. 

Here  lay  the  difficulty  of  the  situation,  a  situa 
tion  that  puzzled  Lord  Montague  and  enraged 
Mrs.  Mavick.  Evelyn  maintained  as  much  in 
difference  to  the  domestic  as  to  the  worldly  sit 
uation.  Her  mother  thought  her  lifeless  and 
insensible ;  she  even  went  so  far  as  to  call  her  un 
womanly  in  her  indifference  to  what  any  other 
woman  would  regard  as  an  opportunity  for  a 
brilliant  career. 

Lifeless  indeed  she  was,  poor  child ;  physically 
languid  and  scarcely  able  to  drag  herself  through 
the  daily  demands  upon  her  strength.  Her 
mother  made  it  a  reproach  that  she  was  so  pale 
and  unresponsive.  Apparently  she  did  not  resist, 
she  did  everything  she  was  told  to  do.  She 
passed,  indeed,  hours  with  Lord  Montague,  occa 
sions  contrived  when  she  was  left  alone  in  the 
house  with  him,  and  she  made  heroic  efforts  to 
be  interested,  to  find  something  in  his  mind  that 
was  in  sympathy  with  her  own  thoughts.  With 
a  woman's  ready  instinct  she  avoided  commit 
ting  herself  to  his  renewed  proposals,  sometimes 
covert,  sometimes  direct,  but  the  struggle  tired 
351 


THAT    FORTUNE 

her.  At  the  end  of  all  such  interviews  she  had 
to  meet  her  mother,  who,  with  a  smile  of  hope 
and  encouragement,  always  said,  "Well,  I  sup 
pose  you  and  Lord  Montague  have  made  it  up," 
and  then  to  encounter  the  contempt  expressed 
for  her  as  a  "  <roose." 

C3 

She  was  helpless  in  such  toils.  At  times  she 
felt  actually  abandoned  of  any  human  aid,  and 
in  moods  of  despondency  almost  resolved  to  give 
up  the  struggle.  In  the  eyes  of  the  world  it  was 
a  good  match,  it  would  make  her  mother  happy, 
no  doubt  her  father  also ;  and  was  it  not  her  duty 
to  put  aside  her  repugnance,  and  go  with  the 
current  of  the  social  and  family  forces  that  seemed 
irresistible  ? 

Few  people  can  resist  doing  what  is  universal 
ly  expected  of  them.  This  invisible  pressure  is 
more  difficult  to  stand  against  than  individual 
tyranny.  There  are  no  tragedies  in  our  modern 
life  so  pathetic  as  the  ossification  of  women's 
hearts  when  love  is  crushed  under  the  compul 
sion  of  social  and  caste  requirements.  Every 
body  expected  that  Evelyn  would  accept  Lord 
Montague.  It  could  be  said  that  for  her  own 
reputation  the  situation  required  this  consumma 
tion  of  the  intimacy  of  the  season.  And  the 
mother  did  not  hesitate  to  put  this  interpre 
tation  upon  the  events  which  were  her  own 
creation. 

352 


THAT    FORTUNE 

But  with  such  a  character  as  Evelyn,  who  was 
a  constant  puzzle  to  her  mother,  this  argument 
had  very  little  weight  compared  with  her  own 
sense  of  duty  to  her  parents.  Her  somewhat 
ideal  education  made  worldly  advantages  of  little 
force  in  her  mind,  and  love  the  one  priceless  pos 
session  of  a  woman's  heart  which  could  not  be 
bartered.  And  yet  might  there  not  be  an  ele 
ment  of  selfishness  in  this — might  not  its  sacrifice 
be  a  family  duty?  Mrs.  Mavick  having  found 
this  weak  spot  in  her  daughter's  armor,  played 
upon  it  with  all  her  sweet  persuasive  skill  and 
show  of  tenderness. 

"  Of  course,  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  know  what 
would  make  me  happy.  But  I  do  not  want  you 
to  yield  to  my  selfishness  or  even  to  your  father's 
ambition  to  see  his  only  child  in  an  exalted  posi 
tion  in  life.  I  can  bear  the  disappointment.  I 
have  had  to  bear  many.  But  it  is  your  own 
happiness  I  am  thinking  of.  And  I  think  also  of 
the  cruel  blow  your  refusal  will  inflict  upon  a 
man  whose  heart  is  bound  up  in  you." 

"But  I  don't  love  him."  The  girl  was  very 
pale,  and  she  spoke  with  an  air  of  weariness,  but 
still  with  a  sort  of  dogged  persistence. 

"  You  will  in  time.  A  young  girl  never  knows 
her  own  heart,  any  more  than  she  knows  the 
world." 

"  Mother,  that  isn't  all.  It  would  be  a  sin  to 
z  353 


THAT    FORTUNE 

him  to  pretend  to  give  him  a  heart  that  was  not 
his.     I  can't;  I  can't." 

"  My  dear  child,  that  is  his  affair.  He  is  will 
ing  to  trust  you,  and  to  win  your  love.  When 
we  act  from  a  sense  of  duty  the  way  is  apt  to 
open  to  us.  I  have  never  told  you  of  my  own 
earlier  experience.  I  was  not  so  young  as  you 
are  when  I  married  Mr.  Henderson,  but  I  had 
not  been  without  the  fancies  and  experiences  of 
a  young  girl.  I  might  have  yielded  to  one  of 
them  but  for  family  reasons.  My  father  had 
lost  his  fortune  and  had  died,  disappointed  and 
broken  down.  My  mother,  a  lovely  woman,  was 
not  strong,  was  not  capable  of  fighting  the  world 
alone,  and  she  depended  upon  me,  for  in  those  days 
I  had  plenty  of  courage  and  spirit.  Mr.  Hender 
son  was  a  widower  whom  we  had  known  as  a 
friend  before  the  death  of  his  accomplished  wife. 
In  his  lonesomeness  he  turned  to  me.  In  our 
friendlessness  I  turned  to  him.  Did  I  love  him  ? 
I  esteemed  him,  I  respected  him,  I  trusted  him, 
that  was  all.  He  did  not  ask  more  than  that. 
And  what  a  happy  life  we  had!  I  shared  in  all 
his  great  plans.  And  when  in  the  midst  of  his 
career,  with  such  large  ideas  of  public  service 
and  philanthropy,  he  was  stricken  down,  he  left 
to  me,  in  the  confidence  of  his  love,  all  that  fort 
une  which  is  some  day  to  be  yours."  Mrs. 
Mavick  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  "  Ah, 

354 


THAT    FORTUNE 

well,  our  destiny  is  not  in  our  hands.  Heaven 
raised  up  for  me  another  protector,  another 
friend.  Perhaps  some  of  my  youthful  illusions 
have  vanished,  but  should  I  have  been  happier  if 
I  had  indulged  them?  I  know  your  dear  father 
does  not  think  so." 

"  Mother,"  cried  Evelyn,  deeply  moved  by  this 
unprecedented  confidence,  "  I  cannot  bear  to  see 
you  suffer  on  my  account.  But  must  not  every 
one  decide  for  herself  what  is  right  before  God?" 

At  this  inopportune  appeal  to  a  higher  power 
Mrs.  Mavick  had  some  difficulty  in  restraining 
her  surprise  and  indignation  at  what  she  consid 
ered  her  child's  stubbornness.  But  she  conquered 
the  inclination,  and  simply  looked  sad  and  ap 
pealing  when  she  said : 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  must  decide  for  yourself.  You 
must  not  consider  your  mother  as  I  did  mine." 

This  cruel  remark  cut  the  girl  to  the  heart. 
The  world  seemed  to  whirl  around  her,  right  and 
wrong  and  duty  in  a  confused  maze.  Was  she, 
then,  such  a  monster  of  ingratitude?  She  half 
rose  to  throw  herself  at  her  mother's  feet,  upon 
her  mother's  mercy.  And  at  the  moment  it  was 
not  her  reason  but  her  heart  that  saved  her.  In 
the  moral  confusion  rose  the  image  of  Philip. 
Suppose  she  should  gain  the  whole  world  and 
lose  him !  And  it  was  love,  simple,  trusting  love, 
that  put  courage  into  her  sinking  heart. 

855 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"Mother,  it  is  very  hard.  I  love  you;  I  could 
die  for  you.  I  am  so  forlorn.  But  I  cannot,  I 
dare  not,  do  such  a  thing,  such  a  dreadful  thing !" 

She  spoke  brokenly,  excitedly,  she  shuddered 
as  she  said  the  last  words,  and  her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears  as  she  bent  down  and  kissed  her  mother. 

"When  she  had  gone,  Mrs.  Mavick  sat  long  in 
her  chair,  motionless  between  bewilderment  and 
rage.  In  her  heart  she  was  saying,  "  The  obsti 
nate,  foolish  girl  must  be  brought  to  reason !" 

A  servant  entered  with  a  telegram.  Mrs.  Ma 
vick  took  it,  and  held  it  listlessly  while  the  ser 
vant  waited.  "  You  can  sign."  After  the  door 
closed— she  was  still  thinking  of  Evelyn — she 
waited  a  moment  before  she  tore  the  envelope, 
and  with  no  eagerness  unfolded  the  official  yel 
low  paper.  And  then  she  read : 

"  I  have  made  an  assignment. — T.  M." 

A  half-hour  afterwards  when  a  maid  entered 
the  room  she  found  Mrs.  Mavick  still  seated  in 
the  arm-chair,  her  hands  powerless  at  her  side, 
her  eyes  staring  into  space,  her  face  haggard 
and  old. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  action  of  Thomas  Mavick  in  giving  up 
the  fight  was  as  unexpected  in  New  York  as  it 
was  in  Newport.  It  was  a  shock  even  to  those 
familiar  with  the  Street.  It  was  known  that  he 
was  in  trouble,  but  he  had  been  in  trouble  be 
fore.  It  was  known  that  there  had  been  sacri 
fices,  efforts  at  extension,  efforts  at  compromise, 
but  the  general  public  fancied  that  the  Mavick 
fortune  had  a  core  too  solid  to  be  washed  away 
by  any  storm.  Only  a  very  few  people  knew— 
such  old  hands  as  Uncle  Jerry  Hollo  well,  and 
such  inquisitive  bandits  as  Murad  Ault — that  the 
house  of  Mavick  was  a  house  of  cards,  and  that 
it  might  go  down  when  the  belief  was  destroyed 
that  it  was  of  granite. 

The  failure  was  not  an  ordinary  sensation,  and, 
according  to  the  excellent  practices  and  differing 
humors  of  the  daily  newspapers,  it  was  made  the 
most  of,  until  the  time  came  for  the  heavy  week 
lies  to  handle  it  in  its  moral  aspects  as  an  il 
lustration  of  modern  civilization.  On  the  first 
morning  there  was  substantial  unanimity  in  as- 
357 


THAT    FORTUNE 

suming  the  totality  of  the  disaster,  and  the  most 
ingenious  artists  in  head -lines  vied  with  each 
other  in  startling  effects:  "  Crash  in  "Wall  Street." 
"  Mavick  Kuns  Up  the  White  Flag."  «  King  of 
Wall  Street  Called  Down."  "Ault  Takes  the 
Pot."  "  Dangerous  to  Dukes."  "  Mavick  Bank 
rupt."  "  The  House  of  Mavick  a  Euin."  "  Dukes 
and  Drakes."  "  The  Sea  Goes  Over  Him." 

This,  however,  was  only  the  beginning.  The 
sensation  must  be  prolonged.  The  next  day 
there  were  attenuating  circumstances.  It  might 
be  only  a  temporary  embarrassment.  The  as 
sets  were  vastly  greater  than  the  liabilities. 
There  was  talk  in  financial  circles  of  an  adjust 
ment.  With  time  the  house  could  go  on.  The 
next  day  it  was  made  a  reproach  to  the  house 
that  such  deceptive  hopes  were  put  upon  the 
public.  Journalistic  enterprise  had  discovered 
that  the  extent  of  the  liabilities  had  been  con 
cealed.  This  attempt  to  deceive  the  public,  these 
defenders  of  the  public  interest  would  expose. 
The  next  day  the  wind  blew  from  another  di 
rection.  The  alarmists  were  rebuked.  The  cred 
itors  were  disposed  to  be  lenient.  Doubtful  se 
curities  were  likely  to  realize  more  than  was 
expected.  The  assignees  were  sharply  scored 
for  not  taking  the  newspapers  into  their  confi 
dence. 

And  so  for  ten  days  the  failure  went  on  in  the 
358 


THAT    FORTUNE 

newspapers,  backward  and  forward,  now  hope 
less,  now  relieved,  now  sunk  in  endless  compli 
cations,  and  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  lawyers 
who  could  be  trusted  with  the  most  equitable 
distribution  of  the  property  involved,  until  the 
reading  public  were  glad  to  turn,  with  the  same 
eager  zest,  to  the  case  of  the  actress  who  was 
found  dead  in  a  hotel  in  Jersey  City.  She  was 
attended  only  by  her  pet  poodle,  in  whose  collar 
was  embedded  a  jewel  of  great  price.  This  jewel 
was  traced  to  a  New  York  establishment,  whence 
it  had  disappeared  under  circumstances  that  point 
ed  to  the  criminality  of  a  scion  of  a  well-known 
family — an  exposure  which  would  shake  society 
to  its  foundations. 

Meantime  affairs  took  their  usual  course.  The 
downfall  of  Mavick  is  too  well  known  in  the 
Street  to  need  explanation  here.  For  a  time  it 
was  hoped  that  sacrifices  of  great  interests  would 
leave  a  modest  little  fortune,  but  under  the  press 
ure  of  liquidation  these  hopes  melted  away.  If 
anything  could  be  saved  it  would  be  only  com 
paratively  valueless  securities  and  embarrassed 
bits  of  property  that  usually  are  only  a  delusion 
and  a  source  of  infinite  worry  to  a  bankrupt. 
It  seemed  incredible  that  such  a  vast  fortune 
should  so  disappear ;  but  there  were  wise  men 
who,  so  they  declared,  had  always  predicted  this 
disaster.  For  some  years  after  Henderson's  death 

359 


THAT    FORTUNE 

the  fortune  bad  appeared  to  expand  marvellous 
ly.  It  was,  however,  expanded,  and  not  solidified. 
It  had  been  risked  in  many  gigantic  speculations 
(such  as  the  Argentine),  and  it  had  been  liable  to 
collapse  at  an}^  time  if  its  central  credit  was 
doubted.  Mavick's  combinations  were  splendidly 
conceived,  but  he  lacked  the  power  of  co-ordina 
tion.  And  great  as  were  his  admitted  abilities, 
he  had  never  inspired  confidence. 

"  And,  besides,"  said  Uncle  Jerry,  philosophiz 
ing  about  it  in  his  homely  way,  "  there's  that 
little  devil  of  a  Carmen,  the  most  fascinating 
woman  I  ever  knew — it  would  take  the  Bank  of 
England  to  run  her.  Why,  when  I  see  that 
Golden  House  going  up,  I  said  I'd  give  'em 
five  years  to  balloon  in  it.  I  was  mistaken. 
They've  floated  it  about  eighteen.  Some  folks 
are  lucky — up  to  a  certain  point." 

Grave  history  gives  but  a  paragraph  to  a  per 
sonal  celebrity  of  this  sort.  When  a  ship  goes 
down  in  a  tempest  off  the  New  England  coast, 
there  is  a  brief  period  of  public  shock  and  sym 
pathy,  and  then  the  world  passes  on  to  other 
accidents  and  pleasures ;  but  for  months  relics  of 
the  great  vessel  float  ashore  on  lonely  headlands 
or  are  cast  up  on  sandy  beaches,  and  for  years, 
in  many  a  home  made  forlorn  by  the  ship 
wreck,  are  aching  hearts  and  an  ever-present 
calamity. 

360 


THAT    FORTUNE 

The  disaster  of  the  house  of  Mavick  was  not 
accepted  without  a  struggle,  lasting  long  after 
the  public  interest  in  the  spectacle  had  abated— 
a  struggle  to  save  the  ship  and  then  to  pick  up 
some  debris  from  the  great  wreck.  The  most 
pathetic  sight  in  the  business  Avorld  is  that  of  a 
bankrupt,  old  and  broken,  pursuing  with  always 
deluded  expectations  the  remnants  of  his  fort 
une,  striving  to  make  new  combinations,  involved 
in  law -suits,  alternately  despairing,  alternately 
hopeful  in  the  chaos  of  his  affairs.  This  was  the 
fate  of  Thomas  Mavick. 

The  news  was  all  over  Newport  in  a  few  hours 
after  it  had  stricken  down  Mrs.  Mavick.  The 
newspaper  details  the  morning  after  were  read 
with  that  eager  interest  that  the  misfortunes  of 
neighbors  al \vays  excite.  After  her  first  stupor, 
Mrs.  Mavick  refused  to  believe  it.  It  could  not 
be,  and  her  spirit  of  resistance  rose  with  the 
frantic  messages  she  sent  to  her  husband.  Alas, 
the  cold  fact  of  the  assignment  remained.  Still 
her  courage  was  not  quite  beaten  down.  The 
suspension  could  only  be  temporary.  She  would 
not  have  it  otherwise.  Two  days  she  showed 
herself  as  usual  in  Newport,  and  carried  herself 
bravely.  The  sympathy  looked  or  expressed  was 
wormwood  to  her,  but  she  met  it  with  a  reas 
suring  smile.  To  be  sure  it  was  very  hard  to 
bear  such  a  blow,  the  result  of  a  stock  intrigue, 
361 


THAT    FORTUNE 

but  it  would  soon  pass  over — it  was  a  temporary 
embarrassment — that  she  said  everywhere. 

She  had  not,  however,  told  the  news  to  Evelyn 
with  any  such  smiling  confidence.  There  wras 
still  rage  in  her  heart  against  her  daughter,  as 
if  her  obstinacy  had  some  connection  with  this 
blow  of  fate,  and  she  did  not  soften  the  announce 
ment.  She  expected  to  sting  her,  and  she  did 
astonish  and  she  did  grieve  her,  for  the  breaking- 
up  of  her  world  could  not  do  otherwise ;  but  it  was 
for  her  mother  and  not  for  herself  that  Evelyn 
showed  emotion.  If  their  fortune  was  gone,  then 
the  obstacle  was  removed  that  separated  her 
from  Philip.  The  world  well  lost !  This  flashed 
through  her  mind  before  she  had  fairly  grasped 
the  extent  of  the  fatality,  and  it  blunted  her  ap 
preciation  of  it  as  an  unmixed  ruin. 

"  Poor  mamma !"  was  what  she  said. 

"  Poor  me !"  cried  Mrs.  Mavick,  looking  with 
amazement  at  her  daughter — "don't  you  under 
stand  that  our  life  is  all  ruined  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  part  of  it,  but  we  are  left.  It 
might  have  been  so  much  worse." 

"Worse?  You  have  no  more  feeling  than  a 
chip.  You  are  a  beggar!  That  is  all.  What  do 
you  mean  by  worse  ?" 

"If  father  had  done  anything  dishonorable!" 
suggested  the  girl,  timidly,  a  little  scared  by  her 
mothers  outburst. 

362 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"Evelyn,  you  are  a  fool!" 

And  perhaps  she  was,  with  such  preposterous 
notions  of  what  is  really  valuable  in  life.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  of  it  from  Mrs.  Mavick's  point 
of  view. 

If  Evelyn's  conduct  exasperated  her,  the  non- 
appearance  of  Lord  Montague  after  the  publica 
tion  of  the  news  seriously  alarmed  her.  No 
doubt  he  was  shocked,  but  she  could  explain  it  to 
him,  and  perhaps  he  was  too  much  interested  in 
Evelyn  to  be  thrown  off  by  this  misfortune.  The 
third  day  she  wrote  him  a  note,  a  familiar,  almost 
affectionate  note,  chiding  him  for  deserting  them 
in  their  trouble.  She  assured  him  that  the  news 
was  greatly  exaggerated,  the  embarrassment  was 
only  temporary,  such  things  were  always  happen 
ing  in  the  Street.  "  You  know,"  she  said,  playful 
ly,  "it  is  our  American  way  to  be  up  in  a  minute 
when  we  seem  to  be  down."  She  asked  him  to 
call,  for  she  had  something  that  was  important 
to  tell  him,  and,  besides,  she  needed  his  counsel  as 
a  friend  of  the  house.  The  note  was  despatched 
by  a  messenger. 

In  an  hour  it  was  returned,  unopened,  with  a 
verbal  message  from  his  host,  saying  that  Lord 
Montague  had  received  important  news  from 
London,  and  that  he  had  left  town  the  day  be 
fore. 

"  Coward  !"  muttered  the  enraged  woman,  with 

363 


THAT    FORTUNE 

closed  teeth.  "Men  are  all  cowards,  put  them 
to  the  test." 

The  energetic  woman  judged  from  a  too  nar 
row  basis.  Because  Mavick  was  weak — and  she 
had  always  secretly  despised  him  for  yielding  to 
her — weak  as  compared  with  her  own  indomita 
ble  spirit,  she  generalized  wildly.  Her  opinion  of 
men  would  have  been  modified  if  she  had  come 
in  contact  with  Murad  Ault. 

To  one  man  in  New  York  besides  Mr.  Ault  the 
failure  did  not  seem  a  personal  calamity.  When 
Philip  saw  in  the  steamer  departures  the  name  of 
Lord  Montague,  his  spirits  rose  in  spite  of  the 
thought  that  the  heiress  was  no  longer  an  heiress. 
The  sky  lifted,  there  was  a  promise  of  fair 
weather,  the  storm,  for  him,  had  indeed  cleared 
the  air. 

"Dear  Philip,"  wrote  Miss  McDonald,  "it  is 
really  dreadful  news,  but  I  cannot  be  so  very 
downhearted.  It  is  the  least  of  calamities  that 
could  happen  to  my  dear  child.  Didn't  I  tell 
you  that  it  is  always  darkest  just  before  the 
dawn  r 

And  Philip  needed  the  hope  of  the  dawn. 
Trial  is  good  for  any  one,  but  hopeless  suffering 
for  none.  Philip  had  not  been  without  hope, 
but  it  was  a  visionary  indulgence,  against  all  evi 
dence.  It  was  the  hope  of  youth,  not  of  reason. 
He  stuck  to  his  business  doggedly,  he  stuck  to 
364 


THAT    FORTUNE 

his  writing  doggedly,  but  over  all  his  mind  was 
a  cloud,  an  oppression  not  favorable  to  creative 
effort — that  is,  creative  effort  sweet  and  not  cyni 
cal,  sunny  and  not  morbid. 

And  yet,  who  shall  say  that  this  very  experi 
ence,  this  oppression  of  circumstance,  was  not 
the  thing  needed  for  the  development  of  the 
best  that  was  in  him.  Thrown  back  upon  him 
self  and  denied  an  airy  soaring  in  the  heights  of 
a  prosperous  fancy,  he  had  come  to  know  him 
self  and  his  limitations.  And  in  the  year  he 
had  learned  a  great  deal  about  his  art.  For  one 
thing  he  had  come  to  the  ground.  He  was  look 
ing  more  at  life  as  it  is.  His  experience  at  the 
publishers'  had  taught  him  one  important  truth, 
and  that  is  that  a  big  subject  does  not  make  a 
big  writer,  that  all  that  any  mind  can  contribute 
to  the  general  thought  of  the  world  in  litera 
ture  is  what  is  in  itself,  and  if  there  is  nothing 
in  himself  it  is  vain  for  the  writer  to  go  far 
afield  for  a  theme.  He  had  seen  the  young  art 
ists,  fretting  for  want  of  subjects,  wandering  the 
world  over  in  search  of  an  object  fitted  to  their 
genius,  setting  up  their  easels  in  front  of  the 
marvels  of  nature  and  of  art,  in  the  expectation 
that  genius  would  descend  upon  them.  If  they 
could  find  something  big  enough  to  paint !  And 
he  had  seen,  in  exhibition  after  exhibition,  that 
the  artist  who  cannot  paint  a  rail-fence  cannot 

365 


THAT    FORTUNE 

paint  a  pyramid.  A  man  does  not  become  a 
good  rider  by  mounting  an  elephant;  ten  to  one 
a  donkey  would  suit  him  better.  Philip  had 
begun  to  see  that  the  life  around  him  had  ele 
ments  enough  of  the  comic  and  the  tragic  to 
give  full  play  to  all  his  powers.  He  began  to 
observe  human  beings  as  he  had  never  done  be 
fore.  There  were  only  two  questions,  and  they 
are  at  the  bottom  of  all  creative  literature — could 
he  see  them,  could  he  make  others  see  them  ? 

This  was  all  as  true  before  the  Mavick  failure 
as  after ;  but,  before,  what  was  the  use  of  effort  ? 
]STow  there  was  ever3r  inducement  to  effort.  Am 
bition  to  succeed  had  taken  on  him  the  hold  of 
necessity.  And  with  a  free  mind  as  to  the  ob 
stacles  that  lay  between  him  and  the  realization 
of  the  great  dream  of  his  life,  the  winning  of  the 
one  woman  who  could  make  his  life  complete, 
Philip  set  to  work  with  an  earnestness  and  a 
clearness  of  vision  that  had  never  been  given 
him  before. 

In  the  wreck  of  the  Mavick  estate,  in  its  distri 
bution,  there  are  one  or  two  things  of  interest  to 
the  general  reader.  One  of  these  was  the  fate 
of  the  Golden  House,  as  it  was  called.  Mrs. 
Mavick  had  hurried  back  to  her  town  house,  de 
termined  to  save  it  at  all  hazard.  The  impossi 
bility  of  this  was,  however,  soon  apparent  even 
to  her  intrepid  spirit.  She  would  either  sacri- 


THAT    FORTUNE 

fice  all  else  to  save  it,  or — dark  thoughts  of  end 
ing  it  in  a  conflagration  entered  her  mind.  This 
was  only  her  first  temper.  But  to  keep  the 
house  without  a  vast  fortune  to  sustain  it  was 
an  impossibility,  and,  as  it  was  the  most  con 
spicuous  of  Mavick's  visible  possessions,  perhaps 
the  surrender  of  it,  which  she  could  not  prevent, 
would  save  certain  odds  and  ends  here  and  there. 
Whether  she  liked  it  or  not,  the  woman  learned 
for  once  that  her  will  had  little  to  do  with  the 
course  of  events. 

Its  destination  was  gall  and  wormwood  both 
to  Carmen  and  her  husband.  For  it  fell  into  the 
hands  of  Murad  Ault.  He  coveted  it  as  the 
most  striking  symbol  of  the  position  he  had 
conquered  in  the  metropolis.  Its  semi -barbaric 
splendor  appealed  also  to  his  passion  for  display. 
And  it  was  notable  that  the  taste  of  the  rude  lad 
of  poverty,  this  uncultivated  offspring  of  a  wan 
dering  gypsy  and  herb -collector  —  perhaps  she 
had  ancient  and  noble  blood  in  her  veins — should 
be  the  same  for  material  ostentation  and  luxury 
as  that  of  the  cultivated,  fastidious  Mavick  and 
his  worldly  minded  wife.  So  persistent  is  the 
instinct  of  barbarism  in  our  modern  civilization. 

"When  Ault  told  his  wife  what  he  had  done, 
that  sweet,  domestic,  and  sensible  woman  was 
very  far  from  being  elated. 

"  I  am  almost  sorry,"  she  said. 
367 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Sorry  for  what  ?"  asked  Mr.  Ault,  gently,  but 
greatly  surprised. 

"For  the  Mavicks.  I  don't  mean  for  Mrs. 
Mavick — I  hear  she  is  a  worldly  and  revengeful 
woman — but  for  the  girl.  It  must  be  dreadful  to 
turn  her  out  of  all  the  surroundings  of  her  happy 
life.  And  I  hear  she  is  as  good  as  she  is  lovely. 
Think  what  it  would  be  for  our  own  girls." 

"  But  it  can't  be  helped,"  said  Ault,  persuasive 
ly.  "  The  house  had  to  be  sold,  and  it  makes  no 
difference  who  has  it,  so  far  as  the  girl  is  con 
cerned." 

"  And  don't  you  fear  a  little  for  our  own  girls, 
launching  out  that  way  ?" 

"  You  are  afraid  they  will  get  lost  in  that  big 
house  ?"  And  Mr.  Ault  laughed.  "  It  isn't  a  bit 
too  big  or  too  good  for  them.  At  any  rate,  my 
dear,  in  they  go,  and  you  must  get  ready  to 
move.  The  house  will  be  empty  in  a  week." 

"Murad,"  and  Mrs.  Ault  spoke  as  if  she  were 
not  thinking  of  the  change  for  herself,  "there  is 
one  thing  I  wish  you  would  do  for  me,  dear." 

«  What  is  that  ?" 

"  Go  to  Mr.  Mavick,  or  to  Mrs.  Mavick,  or  the 
assignees  or  whoever,  and  have  the  daughter — 
yes,  and  her  mother — free  to  take  away  anything 
they  want,  anything  dear  to  them  by  long  asso 
ciation.  "Will  you?" 

"  I  don't  see  how.    Mavick  wouldn't  do  it  for 

368 


THAT    FORTUNE 

us,  and  I  guess  he  is  too  proud  to  accept  anything 
from  me.  I  don't  owe  him  anything.  And  then 
the  property  is  in  the  assignment.  Whatever  is 
there  I  bought  with  the  house." 

"  I  should  be  so  much  happier  if  you  could  do 
something  about  it." 

"Well,  it  don't  matter  much.  I  guess  the 
assignees  can  make  Mrs.  Mavick  believe  easy 
enough  that  certain  things  belong  to  her.  But  I 
would  not  do  it  for  any  other  living  being  but 
you." 

"By -the -way,"  he  added,  "there  is  another 
bit  of  property  that  I  didn't  take,  the  Newport 
palace." 

"I  should  have  dreaded  that  more  than  the 
other." 

"  So  I  thought.  And  I  have  another  plan.  It's 
long  been  in  my  mind,  and  we  will  carry  it  out 
next  summer.  There  is  a  little  plateau  on  the 
side  of  the  East  Mountain  in  Rivervale,  where 
there  used  to  stand  a  shack  of  a  cabin,  with  a  wild 
sort  of  garden-patch  about  it,  a  tumble-down  root 
fence,  all  in  the  midst  of  brush  and  briars.  Lord, 
what  a  habitation  it  was!  But  such  a  view — 
rivers,  mountains,  meadows,  and  orchards  in  the 
distance !  That  is  where  I  lived  with  my  mother. 
What  a  life!  I  hated  everything,  everybody  but 
her." 

Mr.  Ault  paused,  his  strong,  dark  face  working 
2  A  369 


THAT    FORTUNE 

with  passion,  as  the  memory  of  his  outlawed 
boyhood  revived.  Is  it  possible  that  this  pirate 
of  the  Street  had  a  bit  of  sentiment  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  ?  After  a  moment  he  con 
tinued  : 

"  That  was  the  spot  to  which  my  mother  took 
me  when  I  was  knee-high.  I've  bought  it, 
bought  the  whole  hill-side.  Next  summer  we 
will  put  up  a  house  there,  not  a  very  big  house, 
just  a  long,  low  sort  of  a  Moorish  pavilion,  the 
architect  calls  it.  I  wish  she  could  see  it." 

Mrs.  Ault  rose,  with  tears  in  her  gentle  eyes, 
stood  by  her  husband's  chair  a  moment,  ran  her 
fingers  through  his  heavy  black  locks,  bent  down 
and  kissed  him,  and  went  away  without  a  word. 

There  was  another  bit  of  property  that  was  not 
included  in  the  wreck.  It  belonged  to  Mrs. 
Mavick.  This  was  a  little  house  in  Irving  Place, 
in  which  Carmen  Eschelle  lived  with  her  mother, 
in  the  days  before  the  death  of  Henderson's  first 
wife,  not  very  happy  days  for  that  wife.  Carmen 
had  a  fancy  for  keeping  it  after  her  marriage. 
Not  from  any  sentiment,  she  told  Mr.  Mavick  on 
the  occasion  of  her  second  marriage,  oh  no,  but 
somehow  it  seemed  to  her,  in  all  her  vast  posses 
sions  left  to  her  by  Henderson,  the  only  real 
estate  she  had.  It  was  the  only  thing  that  had 
not  passed  into  the  absolute  possession  and  con 
trol  of  Mavick.  The  great  town  house,  with  all 
370 


THAT    FORTUNE 

the  rest,  stood  in  Mavick's  name.  What  secret 
influence  had  he  over  her  that  made  her  submit 
to  such  a  foolish  surrender  ? 

It  was  in  this  little  house  that  the  reduced 
family  stowed  itself  after  the  downfall.  The 
little  house,  had  it  been  sentient,  would  have 
been  astonished  at  the  entrance  into  it  of  the 
furniture  and  the  remnants  of  luxurious  living 
that  Mrs.  Mavick  was  persuaded  belonged  to  her 
personally.  These  reminders  of  former  days 
were,  after  all,  a  mockery  in  the  narrow  quarters 
and  the  pinched  economy  of  the  bankrupt.  Yet 
they  were  for  a  time  useful  in  preserving  to 
Mrs.  Mavick  a  measure  of  self-respect,  her  self- 
respect  having  always  been  based  upon  what  she 
had  and  not  what  she  was.  In  truth,  the  change 
of  lot  was  harder  for  Mrs.  Mavick  than  for  Evelyn, 
since  the  world  in  which  the  latter  lived  had  not 
been  destroyed.  She  still  had  her  books,  she 
still  had  a  great  love  in  her  heart,  and  hope, 
almost  now  a  sure  hope,  that  her  love  would 
blossom  into  a  great  happiness. 

But  where  was  Philip  ?  In  all  this  time  why 
did  he  make  no  sign  ?  At  moments  a  great  fear 
came  over  her.  She  was  so  ignorant  of  life. 
Could  he  know  what  misery  she  was  in,  the  daily 
witness  of  her  father's  broken  condition,  of  her 
mother's  uncertain  temper  ? 
371 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Is  justice  done  in  this  world  only  by  a  suc 
cession  of  injustices?  Is  there  any  law  that  a 
wrong  must  right  a  wrong  ?  Did  it  rebuke  the 
means  by  which  the  vast  fortune  of  Henderson 
was  accumulated,  that  it  was  defeated  of  any 
good  use  by  the  fraud  of  his  wife?  Was  her 
action  punished  by  the  same  unscrupulous  tactics 
of  the  Street  that  originally  made  the  fortune? 
And  Ault?  Would  a  stronger  pirate  arise  in 
time  to  despoil  him,  and  so  act  as  the  Nemesis 
of  all  violation  of  the  law  of  honest  relations  be 
tween  men? 

The  comfort  is,  in  all  this  struggle  of  the  evil 
powers,  masked  as  justice,  that  the  Almighty 
Ruler  of  the  world  does  not  forget  his  own,  and 
shows  them  a  smiling  face  in  the  midst  of  dis 
aster.  There  is  no  mystery  in  this.  For  the 
noble  part  in  man  cannot  be  touched  in  its  in 
tegrity  by  such  vulgar  disasters  as  we  are  con 
sidering.  In  those  days  when  Evelyn  saw  dis 
solving  about  her  the  material  splendors  of  her 
old  life,  while  the  Golden  House  was  being  dis- 
372 


THAT    FORTUNE 

mantled,  and  she  was  taking  sad  leave  of  the 
scenes  of  her  girlhood,  so  vivid  with  memory 
of  affection  and  of  intellectual  activity,  they 
seemed  only  the  shell,  the  casting-off  of  which 
gave  her  freedom.  The  sun  never  shone  bright 
er,  there  was  never  such  singing  in  her  heart, 
as  on  the  morning  when  she  was  free  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Yan  Cortlandt's  and  throw  herself  into 
the  arms  of  her  dear  governess  and  talk  of 
Philip. 

Why  not  ?  Perhaps  she  had  not  that  kind  of 
maidenly  shyness,  sometimes  called  conventional 
propriety,  sometimes  described  as  mauvaise  lionte, 
which  a  woman  of  the  world  would  have  shown. 
The  impulses  of  her  heart  followed  as  direct  lines 
as  the  reasoning  of  her  brain.  Was  it  due  to  her 
peculiar  education,  education  only  in  the  noblest 
ideas  of  the  race,  that  she  should  be  a  sort  of 
reversion,  in  our  complicated  life,  to  the  type  of 
woman  in  the  old  societies  (we  like  to  believe 
there  was  such  a  type  as  the  poets  love,  the 
Nausicaas),  who  were  single-minded,  as  frank  to 
avow  affection  as  opinion  ? 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?"  she  asked. 

"  No,  but  he  has  written." 

"  And  you  think  he — " — the  girl  had  her  arms 
around  her  friend's  neck  again,  and  concealed 
her  blushing  face — "  don't  make  me  say  it,  Mc 
Donald." 

373 


THAT    FORTUNE 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  am  sure — I  know  he  does." 

There  was  a  little  quiver  in  her  form,  but  it 
was  not  of  agony ;  then  she  put  her  hands  on 
the  shoulders  of  her  governess,  and,  looking  in 
her  eyes,  said : 

"  When  you  did  see  him,  how  did  he  look — 
how  did  he  look  ? — pretty  sad  ?" 

"  How  could  he  help  it  ?" 

"  The  dear !    But  was  he  well  3" 

"  Splendidly,  so  he  said.     Like  his  old  self." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  the  girl. 

And  Miss  McDonald  went  into  delightful  de 
tails,  how  he  looked,  how  he  walked,  how  his 
voice  sounded,  how  he  talked,  how  melancholy 
he  was,  and  how  full  of  determination  he  was, 
his  eyes  were  so  kindly,  and  his  smile  was 
never  so  sweet  as  now  when  there  was  sadness 
in  it. 

"  It  is  very  long  since,"  drearily  murmured  the 
girl.  And  then  she  continued,  partly  to  herself, 
partly  to  Miss  McDonald :  "  He  will  come  now, 
can't  he?  Not  to  that  house.  Never  would  I 
wish  him  to  set  foot  in  it.  But  he  is  not  forbid 
den  to  come  to  the  place  where  we  are  going. 
Soon,  you  think  ?  Perhaps  you  might  hint — oh 
no,  not  from  me — just  your  idea.  Wouldn't  it 
be  natural,  after  our  misfortune  ?  Perhaps  mam 
ma  would  feel  differently  after  what  has  hap 
pened.  Oh,  that  Montague !  that  horrid  little 
874 


THAT    FORTUNE 

man  !  I  think — I  think  I  shall  receive  him  coolly 
at  first,  just  to  see." 

But  it  was  not  immediately  that  the  chance 
for  a  guileless  woman  to  show  her  coolness  to 
her  lover  was  to  occur.  This  postponement  was 
not  due  to  the  coolness  or  to  the  good  sense  of 
Philip.  When  the  catastrophe  came,  his  first  im 
pulse  was  that  of  a  fireman  who  plunges  into 
a  burning  building  to  rescue  the  imperilled  in 
mates.  He  pictured  in  his  mind  a  certain  nobil 
ity  of  action  in  going  forward  to  the  unfortunate 
family  with  his  sympathy,  and  appearing  to  them 
in  the  heroic  attitude  of  a  man  whose  love  has 
no  alloy  of  self-interest.  They  should  speedily 
understand  that  it  was  not  the  heiress,  but  the 
woman,  with  whom  he  was  in  love. 

But  Miss  McDonald  understood  human  nature 
better  than  that,  at  least  the  nature  of  Mrs.  Ma- 
vick.  People  of  her  temperament,  humiliated 
and  enraged,  are  best  left  alone.  The  fierceness 
with  which  she  would  have  turned  upon  any  of 
her  society  friends  who  should  have  presumed  to 
offer  her  condolence,  however  sweetly  the  con 
descension  were  concealed,  would  have  been  vent 
ed  without  mercy  upon  the  man  whose  presence 
would  have  reminded  her  of  her  foolish  rudeness 
to  him,  and  of  the  bitter  failure  of  her  schemes 
for  her  daughter.  "  Wait,  wait,"  said  the  good 
counsellor,  "  until  the  turmoil  has  subsided,  and 
875 


THAT    FORTUNE 

the  hard  pressure  of  circumstances  compels  her 
to  look  at  things  in  their  natural  relations.  She 
is  too  sore  now  in  the  wreck  of  all  her  hopes." 

But,  indeed,  her  hopes  were  not  all  surrendered 
in  a  moment.  She  had  more  spirit  than  her  hus 
band  in  their  calamity.  She  was,  in  fact,  a  born 
gambler;  she  had  the  qualities  of  her  temper 
ament,  and  would  not  believe  that  courage  and 
luck  could  not  retrieve,  at  least  partially,  their 
fortune.  It  seemed  incredible  in  the  Street  that 
the  widow  of  Henderson  should  have  given  over 
her  property  so  completely  to  her  second  husband, 
and  it  was  a  surprise  to  find  that  there  was  very 
little  of  value  that  the  assignment  of  Mavick  did 
not  carry  with  it.  The  Street  did  not  know  the 
guilty  secret  between  Mavick  and  his  wife  that 
made  them  cowards  to  each  other.  Nor  did  it 
understand  that  Carmen  was  the  more  venture 
some  gambler  of  the  two,  and  that  gradually,  for 
the  success  of  promising  schemes,  she  had  thrown 
one  thing  after  another  into  the  common  specu 
lation,  until  practically  all  the  property  stood  in 
Mavick's  name.  Was  she  a  fool  in  this,  as  so 
many  women  are  about  their  separate  property,  or 
was  she  cheated?  The  palace  on  Fifth  Avenue 
was  not  even  in  her  name.  "When  she  realized 
that,  there  was  a  scene — but  this  is  not  a  history 
of  the  quarrels  of  Carmen  and  her  husband  after 
the  break-down. 

876 


THAT    FORTUNE 

The  reader  would  not  be  interested — the  pub 
lic  of  the  time  were  not — in  the  adjustment  of 
Mavick  and  his  wife  to  their  new  conditions. 
The  broken-down,  defeated  bankrupt  is  no  novelty 
in  Wall  Street,  the  man  struggling  to  keep  his 
foothold  in  the  business  of  the  Street,  and  de 
scending  lower  and  lower  in  the  scale.  The 
shrewd  curb-stone  broker  may  climb  to  a  seat  in 
the  Stock  Exchange ;  quite  as  often  a  lord  of  the 
Board,  a  commander  of  millions,  may  be  reduced 
to  the  seedy  watcher  of  the  bulletin-board  in  a 
bucket-shop. 

At  first,  in  the  excitement  and  the  confusion, 
amid  the  debris  of  so  much  possible  wealth, 
Mavick  kept  a  sort  of  position,  and  did  not  im 
mediately  feel  the  pinch  of  vulgar  poverty.  But 
the  day  came  when  all  illusion  vanished,  and  it 
was  a  question  of  providing  from  day  to  day  for 
the  small  requirements  of  the  house  in  Irving 
Place. 

It  was  not  a  cheerful  household;  reproaches 
are  hard  to  bear  when  physical  energy  is  want 
ing  to  resist  them.  Mavick  had  visibly  aged 
during  the  year.  It  was  only  in  his  office  that 
he  maintained  anything  of  the  spruce  appearance 
and  sang  froid  which  had  distinguished  the  di 
plomatist  and  the  young  adventurer.  At  home 
he  had  fallen  into  the  slovenliness  that  marks  a 
disappointed  old  age.  Was  Mrs.  Mavick  peevish 
377 


THAT    FORTUNE 

and  unreasonable?  Yery  likely.  And  bad  sbe 
not  reason  to  be?  Was  she,  as  a  woman,  any 
more  likely  to  be  reconciled  to  ber  fate  when  her 
mirror  told  her,  with  pitiless  reflection,  that  she 
was  an  old  woman  ? 

Philip  waited.  Under  the  circumstances  would 
not  both  Philip  and  Evelyn  have  been  justified 
in  disregarding  the  prohibition  that  forbade  their 
meeting  or  even  writing  to  each  other?  It  may 
be  a  nice  question,  but  it  did  not  seem  so  to  these 
two,  who  did  not  juggle  with  their  consciences. 
Philip  had  given  his  word.  Evelyn  would  toler 
ate  no  concealments;  she  was  just  that  simple- 
minded  in  her  filial  notions. 

The  girl,  however,  had  one  comfort,  and  that 
was  the  knowledge  of  Philip  through  Miss 
McDonald,  whom  she  saw  frequently,  and  to 
whom  even  Mrs.  Mavick  was  in  a  manner  recon 
ciled.  She  was  often  in  the  little  house  in  Irving 
Place.  There  was  nothing  in  her  manner  to  re 
mind  Mrs.  Mavick  that  she  had  done  her  a  great 
wrong,  and  her  cheerfulness  and  good  sense  made 
her  presence  and  talk  a  relief  from  the  monotony 
of  the  defeated  woman's  life. 

It  came  about,  therefore,  that  one  day  Philip 
made  his  way  down  into  the  city  to  seek  an 
interview  with  Mr.  Mavick.  He  found  him, 
after  some  inquiry,  in  a  barren  little  office,  occu 
pying  one  of  the  rented  desks  with  three  or  four 
378 


THAT    FORTUNE 

habitues  of  the  Street,  one  of  them  an  old  man 
like  himself,  the  others  mere  lads  who  did  not 
intend  to  remain  long  in  such  cramped  quarters. 

Mr.  Mavick  arose  when  his  visitor  stood  at  his 
desk,  buttoned  up  his  frock-coat,  and  extended 
his  hand  with  a  show  of  business  cordiality,  and 
motioned  him  to  a  chair.  Philip  was  greatly 
shocked  at  the  change  in  Mr.  Mavick's  appear 
ance. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "  for  disturbing 
you  in  business  hours." 

"No  disturbance,"  he  answered,  with  some 
thing  of  the  old  cynical  smile  on  his  lips. 

"  Long  ago  I  called  to  see  you  on  the  errand  I 
have  now,  but  you  were  not  in  town.  It  was, 
Mr.  Mavick,"  and  Philip  hesitated  and  looked 
down,  "in  regard  to  your  daughter." 

"  Ah,  I  did  not  hear  of  it." 

"  JSTo  ?  "Well,  Mr.  Mavick,  I  was  pretty  pre 
sumptuous,  for  I  had  no  foothold  in  the  city, 
except  a  law  clerkship." 

"  I  remember — Hunt,  Sharp  &  Tweedle;  why 
didn't  you  keep  it  ?" 

"  I  wasn't  fitted  for  the  law." 

"  Oh,  literature  ?    Does  literature  pay  1" 

"  Not  in  itself,  not  for  many,"  and  Philip  forced 

a  laugh.    "  But  it  led  to  a  situation  in  a  first-rate 

publishing  house  —  an    apprenticeship   that   has 

now  given  me  a  position  that  seems  to  be  perma- 

379 


THAT    FORTUNE 

nent,  with  prospects  beyond,  and  a  very  fair  sal 
ary.  It  would  not  see  in  much  to  you,  Mr.  Ma- 
vick,"  and  Philip  tried  to  laugh  again. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Mavick.  "  If  a 
fellow  has  any  sort  of  salary  these  times,  I  should 
advise  him  to  hold  on  to  it.  By-the-way,  Mr. 
Burnett,  Hunt's  a  Republican,  isn't  he  ?" 

"  He  was,"  replied  Philip,  "  the  last  I  knew." 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  whether  he  knows 
Bilbrick,  the  present  Collector  ?" 

"  Mr.  Bilbrick  used  to  be  a  client  of  his." 

"  Just  so.  I  think  I'll  see  Hunt.  A  salary 
isn't  a  bad  thing  for  a — for  a  man  who  has  re 
tired  pretty  much  from  business.  But  you  were 
saying,  Mr.  Burnett?" 

"I  was  going  to  say,  Mr.  Mavick,  that  there 
was  a  little  something  more  than  my  salary  that 
I  can  count  on  pretty  regularly  now  from  the 
magazines,  and  I  have  had  another  story,  a  novel, 
accepted,  and — you  won't  think  me  vain  —  the 
publisher  s&js  it  will  go ;  if  it  doesn't  have  a  big 
sale  he  will — " 

"Make  it  up  to  you?" 

"Not  exactly,"  and  Philip  laughed;  "he  will 
be  greatly  mistaken." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  a  kind  of  lottery,  like  most 
things.  The  publishers  have  to  take  risks.  The 
only  harm  I  wish  them  is  that  they  were  com 
pelled  to  read  all  the  stuff  they  try  to  make  us 
380 


THAT    FORTUNE 

read.  Ah,  well.  Mr.  Burnett,  I  hope  you  have 
made  a  hit.  It  is  pretty  much  the  same  thing  in 
our  business.  The  publisher  bulls  his  own  book 
and  bears  the  other  fellow's.  Is  it  a  New  York 
story?" 

"  Partly ;  things  come  to  a  focus  here,  you 
know." 

"  I  could  give  you  points.  It's  a  devil  of  a 
place.  I  guess  the  novelists  are  too  near  to  see 
the  romance  of  it.  When  I  was  in  Kome  I 
amused  myself  by  diving  into  the  mediaeval  rec 
ords.  Steel  and  poison  were  the  weapons  then. 
We  have  a  different  method  now,  but  it  comes 
to  the  same  thing,  and  we  say  we  are  more  civ 
ilized.  I  think  our  way  is  more  devilishly  dra 
matic  than  the  old  brute  fashion.  Yes,  I  could 
give  you  points." 

"I  should  be  greatly  obliged,"  said  Philip, 
seeing  the  way  to  bring  the  conversation  back 
to  its  starting-point;  "your  wide  experience  of 
life— if  you  had  leisure  at  home  some  time." 

"  Oh,"  replied  Mavick,  with  more  good-humor 
in  his  laugh  than  he  had  shown  before,  "  you 
needn't  beat  about  the  bush.  Have  you  seen 
Evelyn?" 

"  No,  not  since  that  dinner  at  the  Yan  Cort- 
landts'." 

"  Huh !  for  myself,  I  should  be  pleased  to  see 
you  any  time,  Mr.  Burnett.     Mrs.  Mavick  hasn't 
381 


THAT    FORTUNE 

felt  like  seeing  any  bod}7  lately.  But  I'll  see, 
I'll  see." 

The  two  men  rose  and  shook  hands,  as  men 
shake  hands  when  they  have  an  understanding. 

"  I'm  glad  you  are  doing  well,"  Mr.  Mavick 
added ;  "  your  life  is  before  you,  mine  is  behind 
me ;  that  makes  a  heap  of  difference." 

Within  a  few  days  Philip  received  a  note  from. 
Mrs.Mavick — not  an  effusive  note,  not  an  explana 
tory  note,  not  an  apologetic  note,  simply  a  note 
as  if  nothing  unusual  had  happened — if  Mr.  Bur 
nett  had  leisure,  would  he  drop  in  at  five  o'clock 
in  Irving  Place  for  a  cup  of  tea  ? 

Not  one  minute  by  his  watch  after  the  hour 
named,  Philip  rang  the  bell  and  was  shown  into 
a  little  parlor  at  the  front.  There  was  only  one 
person  in  the  room,  a  lady  in  exquisite  toilette,  who 
rose  rather  languidly  to  meet  him,  exactly  as  if 
the  visitor  were  accustomed  to  drop  in  to  tea  at 
that  hour. 

Philip  hesitated  a  moment  near  the  door,  em 
barrassed  by  a  mortifying  recollection  of  his  last 
interview  with  Mrs.  Mavick,  and  in  that  moment 
he  saw  her  face.  Heavens,  what  a  change !  And 
yet  it  was  a  smiling  face. 

There  is  a  portrait  of  Carmen  by  a  foreign 

artist,  who  was  years  ago  the  temporary  fashion 

in  !N"ew  York,  painted  the  year  after  her  second 

marriage  and  her  return  from  Rome,  which  ex- 

382 


THAT    FORTUNE 

cited  much  comment  at  the  time.  Philip  had 
seen  it  in  more  than  one  portrait  exhibition.  Its 
technical  excellence  was  considerable.  The  art 
ist  had  evidently  intended  to  represent  a  woman 
piquant  and  fascinating,  if  not  strictly  beautiful. 
Many  persons  said  it  was  lovely.  Other  critics 
said  that,  whether  the  artist  intended  it  or  not, 
he  had  revealed  the  real  character  of  the  subject. 
There  was  something  sinister  in  its  beauty.  One 
artist,  who  was  out  of  fashion  as  an  idealist,  said, 
of  course  privately,  that  the  more  he  looked  at 
it  the  more  hideous  it  became  to  him— like  one 
of  Blake's  objective  portraits  of  a  "  soul  "—the 
naked  soul  of  an  evil  woman  showing  through 
the  mask  of  all  her  feminine  fascinations— the 
possible  hell,  so  he  put  it,  under  a  woman's  charm. 

It  was  this  in  the  portrait  that  Philip  saw  in 
the  face  smiling  a  welcome — like  an  old,  sweetly 
smiling  Lalage — from  which  had  passed  away 
youth  and  the  sustaining  consciousness  of  wealth 
and  of  a  place  in  the  great  world.  The  smile 
was  no  longer  sweet,  though  the  words  from  the 
lips  were  honeyed. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  drop  in  in  this  way, 
Mr.  Burnett,"  she  said,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 
"  It  is  very  quiet  down  here." 

"  It  is  to  me  the  pleasantest  part  of  the  city." 

"  You  think  so  now.  I  thought  so  once,"  and 
there  was  a  note  of  sadness  in  her  voice.  "  But 


THAT    FORTUNE 

it  isn't  New  York.  It  is  a  place  for  the  people 
who  are  left." 

"  But  it  has  associations." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  We  pretend  that  it  is  more 
aristocratic.  That  means  the  rents  are  lower. 
It  is  a  place  for  youth  to  begin  and  for  age  to 
end.  We  seem  to  go  round  in  a  circle.  Mr. 
Mavick  began  in  the  service  of  the  government, 
now  he  has  entered  it  again — ah,  you  did  not 
know? — a  place  in  the  Custom-House.  He  says 
it  is  easier  to  collect  other  people's  revenues  than 
your  own.  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Burnett,  I  do  not 
see  much  use  in  collecting  revenues  anyway — so 
far  as  New  York  is  concerned  the  people  get  lit 
tle  good  of  them.  Look  out  there  at  that  cloud 
of  dust  in  the  street." 

Mrs.  Mavick  rambled  on  in  the  whimsical, 
cynical  fashion  of  old  ladies  when  they  cease  to 
have  any  active  responsibility  in  life  and  become 
spectators  of  it.  Their  remaining  enjoyment  is 
the  indulgence  of  frank  speech. 

"  But  I  thought,"  Philip  interrupted, "  that  this 
part  of  the  town  was  specially  New  York." 

"New  York!"  cried  Carmen,  with  animation. 
"  The  New  York  of  the  newspapers,  of  the  coun 
try  imagination;  the  New  York  as  it  is  known  in 
Paris  is  in  Wall  Street  and  in  the  palaces  up 
town.  Who  are  the  kings  of  Wall  Street,  and 
who  build  the  palaces  up-town  ?  They  say  that 
384 


THAT    FORTUNE 

there  are  no  Athenians  in  Athens,  and  no  Komans 
in  Rome.  How  many  New-Yorkers  are  there  in 
New  York  ?  Do  New-Yorkers  control  the  capi 
tal,  rule  the  politics,  build  the  palaces,  direct  the 
newspapers,  furnish  the  entertainment,  manu 
facture  the  literature,  set  the  pace  in  society? 
Even  the  socialists  and  mobocrats  are  not  native. 
Successive  invaders,  as  in  Rome,  overrun  and 
occupy  the  town.  No,  Mr.  Burnett,  I  have  left 
the  existing  New  York.  How  queer  it  is  to 
think  about  it.  My  first  husband  was  from  New 
Hampshire.  My  second  husband  was  from  Illi 
nois.  And  there  is  your  Murad  Ault.  The  Lord 
knows  where  he  came  from.  Talk  about  the 
barbarians  occupying  Rome !  Look  at  that  Ault 
in  a  palace !  Who  was  that  emperor — Caligula  ? — 
I  am  like  the  young  lady  from  a  finishing-school 
who  said  she  never  could  remember  which  came 
first  in  history,  Greece  or  Rome — who  stabled 
his  horses  with  stalls  and  mangers  of  gold  ?  The 
Aults  stable  themselves  that  way.  Ah,  me! 
Let  me  give  you  a  cup  of  tea.  Even  that  is 
English." 

"  It's  an  innocent  pastime,"  she  continued,  as 
Philip  stirred  his  tea,  in  perplexity  as  to  how  he 
should  begin  to  say  what  he  had  to  say — uyou 
won't  object  if  I  light  a  cigarette?  One  ought 
to  retain  at  least  one  bad  habit  to  keep  from 
spiritual  pride.  Tea  is  an  excuse  for  this.  I 
SB  385 


THAT    FORTUNE 

don't  think  it  a  bad  habit,  though  some  people 
say  that  civilization  is  only  exchanging  one  bad 
habit  for  another.  Everything  changes." 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  changed,  Mrs.  Mavick," 
said  Philip,  with  earnestness. 

"No?  But  you  will.  I  have  known  lots  of 
people  who  said  they  never  would  change.  They 
all  did.  No,  you  need  not  protest.  I  believe  in 
you  now,  or  I  should  not  be  drinking  tea  with 
37ou.  But  you  must  be  tired  of  an  old  woman's 
gossip.  Evelyn  has  gone  out  for  a  walk ;  she 
didn't  know.  I  expect  her  any  minute.  Ah,  I 
think  that  is  her  ring.  I  will  let  her  in.  There 
is  nothing  so  hateful  as  a  surprise." 

She  turned  and  gave  Philip  her  hand,  and  per 
haps  she  was  sincere — she  had  a  habit  of  being 
so  when  it  suited  her  interests — when  she  said, 
"  There  are  no  bygones,  my  friend." 

Philip  waited,  his  heart  beating  a  hundred  to 
the  minute.  He  heard  greetings  and  whisper 
ings  in  the  passage-way,  and  then — time  seemed 
to  stand  still — the  door  opened  and  Evelyn  stood 
on  the  threshold,  radiant  from  her  walk,  her  face 
flushed,  the  dainty  little  figure  poised  in  timid 
expectation,  in  maidenly  hesitation,  and  then  she 
stepped  forward  to  meet  his  advance,  with  wel 
come  in  her  great  eyes,  and  gave  him  her  hand 
in  the  old-fashioned  frankness. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you." 

386 


THAT    FORTUNE 

Philip  murmured  something  in  reply  and  they 
were  seated. 

That  was  all.  It  was  so  different  from  the 
meeting  as  Philip  had  a  hundred  times  im 
agined  it. 

"  It  has  been  very  long,"  said  Philip,  who  was 
devouring  the  girl  with  his  eyes  — "  very  long 
to  me." 

"  I  thought  you  had  been  very  busy,"  she  re 
plied,  demurely.  Her  composure  was  very  irri 
tating. 

"  If  you  thought  about  it  at  all,  Miss  Mavick." 

"  That  is  not  like  you,  Mr.  Burnett,"  Evelyn 
replied,  looking  up  suddenly  with  troubled  eyes. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Philip,  moving  un 
easily  in  his  chair.  "I  —  so  many  things  have 
happened.  You  know  a  person  can  be  busy  and 
not  happy." 

"  I  know  that.  I  was  not  always  happy,"  said 
the  girl,  with  the  air  of  making  a  confession. 
"  But  I  liked  to  hear  from  time  to  time  of  the 
success  of  my  friends,"  she  added,  ingenuously. 
And  then,  quite  inconsequently,  "  I  suppose  you 
have  news  from  Rivervale?" 

Yes,  Philip  heard  often  from  Alice,  and  he  told 
the  news  as  well  as  he  could,  and  the  talk  drifted 
along — how  strange  it  seemed! — about  things  in 
which  neither  of  them  felt  any  interest  at  the 
moment.  Was  there  no  way  to  break  the  barrier 
387 


THAT    FORTUNE 

that  the  little  brown  girl  had  thrown  around 
herself?  Were  all  women,  then,  alike  in  parry 
ing  and  fencing?  The  talk  went -on,  friendly 
enough  at  last,  about  a  thousand  things.  It 
might  have  been  any  afternoon  call  on  a  dear 
friend.  And  at  length  Philip  rose  to  go. 

"  I  hope  I  may  see  you  again,  soon." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Evelyn,  cheerfully.  "  I  am 
sure  father  will  be  delighted  to  see  you.  He 
enjoys  so  little  now." 

He  had  taken  both  her  hands  to  say  good-bye, 
and  was  looking  hungrily  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  can't  go  so.  Evelyn,  you  know,  you  must 
know,  I  love  you." 

And  before  the  girl  comprehended  him  he  had 
drawn  her  to  him  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  hers. 

The  girl  started  back  as  if  stung,  and  looked 
at  him  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  What  have  you  done,  what  have  you  done 
tome?" 

Her  eyes  were  clouded,  and  she  put  her  hands 
to  her  face,  trembling,  and  then  with  a  cry,  as 
of  a  soul  born  into  the  world,  threw  herself  upon 
him,  her  arms  around  his  neck— 

"  Philip,  Philip,  my  Philip !" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

PERHAPS  Philip's  announcement  of  his  good- 
fortune  to  Alice  and  to  Celia  was  not  very  co 
herent,  but  his  meaning  was  plain.  Perhaps  he 
was  conscious  that  the  tidings  would  not  increase 
the  cheerfulness  of  Celia's  single-handed  struggle 
for  the  ideal  life ;  at  least,  he  would  rather  write 
than  tell  her  face  to  face. 

However  he  put  the  matter  to  her,  with  what 
protestations  of  affectionate  friendship  and  trust 
he  wrapped  up  the  statement  that  he  made  as 
matter  of  fact  as  possible,  he  could  not  conceal 
the  ecstatic  state  of  his  mind. 

Nothing  like  it  certainly  had  happened  to  any 
body  in  the  Avorld  before.  All  the  dream  of  his 
boyhood,  romantic  and  rose-colored,  all  the  aspi 
rations  of  his  manhood,  for  recognition,  honor, 
a  place  in  the  life  of  his  time,  were  mere  illu 
sions  compared  to  this  wonderful  crown  of  life — 
a  woman's  love.  Where  did  it  come  from  into 
this  miserable  world,  this  heavenly  ray,  this  pure 
gift  out  of  the  divine  beneficence,  this  spotless 
flower  in  a  humanity  so  astray,  this  sure  prophecy 
389 


THAT    FORTUNE 

of  the  final  redemption  of  the  world?  The  im 
measurable  love  of  a  good  woman  !  And  to  him ! 
Philip  felt  humble  in  his  exaltation,  charitable 
in  his  selfish  appropriation.  He  wanted  to  write 
to  Celia — but  he  did  not — that  he  loved  her  more 
than  ever.  But  to  Alice  he  could  pour  out  his 
wealth  of  affection,  quickened  to  all  the  world 
by  this  great  love,  for  he  knew  that  her  happi 
ness  would  be  in  his  happiness. 

The  response  from  Alice  was  what  he  expected, 
tender,  sweet,  domestic,  and  it  was  full  of  praise 
of  Evelyn,  of  love  for  her.  "  Perhaps,  dear 
Phil,"  she  wrote,  "  I  shall  love  her  more  than  I 
do  you.  I  almost  think — did  I  not  remember 
what  a  bad  boy  you  could  be  sometimes — that 
each  one  of  you  is  too  good  for  the  other.  But, 
Phil,  if  you  should  ever  come  to  think  that  she 
is  not  too  good  for  you,  you  will  not  be  good 
enough  for  her.  I  can't  think  she  is  perfect,  any 
more  than  you  are  perfect — }rou  will  find  that 
she  is  just  a  woman — but  there  is  nothing  in  all 
life  so  precious  as  such  a  heart  as  hers.  You 
will  come  here,  of  course,  and  at  once,  whenever 
it  is.  You  know  that  big,  square,  old-fashioned 
corner  chamber,  with  the  high-poster.  That  is 
yours.  Evelyn  never  saw  it.  The  morning  and 
the  evening  sun  shoot  across  it,  and  the  front 
windows  look  on  the  great  green  crown  of  Mount 
Peak.  You  know  it.  There  is  not  such  a  place 

390 


THAT    FORTUNE 

in  the  world  to  hear  the  low  and  peaceful  mur 
mur  of  the  river,  all  night  long,  rushing,  tum 
bling,  crooning,  I  used  to  think  when  I  was  a 
little  girl  and  dreamed  of  things  unseen,  and 
still  going  on  when  the  birds  begin  to  sing  in 
the  dawn.  And  with  Evelyn  !  Dear  Phil !" 

It  was  in  another  strain,  but  not  less  full  of 
real  affection,  that  Celia  wrote : 

"I  am  not  going  to  congratulate  you.  You 
are  long  past  the  need  of  that.  But  you  know 
that  I  am  happy  in  having  you  happy.  You 
thought  I  never  saw  anything  ?  I  wonder  if  men 
are  as  blind  as  they  seem  to  be?  And  I  had 
fears.  Do  you  know  a  man  ought  to  build  his 
own  monument.  If  he  goes  into  a  monument 
built  for  him,  that  is  the  end  of  him.  Now  you 
can  work,  and  you  will.  I  am  so  glad  she  isn't 
an  heiress  any  more.  I  guess  there  was  a  curse 
on  that  fortune.  But  she  has  eluded  it.  I  be 
lieve  all  you  tell  me  about  her.  Perhaps  there 
are  more  such  women  in  the  world  than  you 
think.  Some  day  I  shall  know  her,  and  soon.  I 
do  long  to  see  her.  Love  her  I  feel  sure  I  shall. 

"  You  ask  about  myself.  I  am  the  same,  but 
things  change.  When  I  get  my  medical  diploma 
I  shall  decide  what  to  do.  My  little  property 
just  suffices,  with  economy,  and  I  enjoy  economy. 
I  doubt  if  I  do  any  general  practice  for  pay. 
There  are  so  many  young  doctors  that  need  the 
39.1 


THAT    FORTUNE 

money  for  practice  more  than  I  do.  And  per 
haps  taking  it  up  as  a  living  would  make  me 
sort  of  hard  and  perfunctory.  And  there  is  so 
much  to  do  in  this  great  'New  York  among  the 
unfortunate  that  a  woman  who  knows  medicine 
can  do  better  than  any  one  else. 

"  Ah,  me,  I  am  happy  in  a  way,  or  I  expect  to  be. 
Everybody — it  isn't  because  I  am  a  woman  I  say 
this — needs  something  to  lean  on  now  and  then. 
There  isn't  much  to  lean  on  in  the  college,  nor 
in  many  of  my  zealous  and  ambitious  companions 
there.  There  is  more  faith  in  the  poor  people 
down  in  the  wards  where  I  go.  They  are  kind 
to  each  other,  and  most  of  them,  not  all,  believe 
in  something.  They  have  that,  at  any  rate,  in  all 
their  trials  and  poverty.  Philip,  don't  despise 
the  invisible.  I  have  got  into  the  habit  of  going 
into  a  Catholic  church  down  there,  when  I  am 
tired  and  discouraged,  and  getting  the  peace  of 
it.  It  is  a  sort  of  open  door!  You  need  not 
jump  to  the  conclusion  that  I  am  '  going  over.' 
Maybe  I  am  going  back.  I  don't  know.  I  have 
always,  you  know,  been  looking  for  something. 
I  like  to  sit  there  in  that  dim  quiet  and  think  of 
things  I  can't  think  of  elsewhere.  Do  you  think 
I  am  queer  ?  Philip,  all  women  are  queer.  They 
haven't  yet  been  explained.  That  is  the  reason 
why  the  novelists  find  it  next  to  impossible,  with 
all  the  materials  at  hand,  to  make  a  good  woman — 
392 


THAT    FORTUNE 

that  is  a  woman.  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  want 
what  you  don't  want  ?  Longing  is  one  thing  and 
reason  another.  Perhaps  I  have  depended  too 
much  on  my  reason.  If  you  long  to  go  to  a 
place  where  you  will  have  peace,  why  should 
you  let  what  you  call  your  reason  stand  in  the 
way?  Perhaps  your  reason  is  foolishness.  You 
will  laugh  a  little  at  this,  and  say  that  I  am 
tired.  No.  Only  I  am  not  so  sure  of  things  as 
I  used  to  be.  Do  you  remember  when  we  chil 
dren  used  to  sit  under  that  tree  by  the  Deerfield, 
how  confident  I  was  that  I  understood  all  about 
life,  and  my  airs  of  superiority?  Well,  I  don't 
know  as  much  now.  But  there  is  one  thing  that 
has  survived  and  grown  with  the  years,  and  that, 
Philip,  is  your  dear  friendship." 

What  was  it  in  this  unassuming,  but  no  doubt 
sufficiently  conceited  and  ambitious,  young  fel 
low  that  he  should  have  the  affection,  the  love, 
of  three  such  women  ? 

Is  affection  as  whimsically,  as  blindly  distrib 
uted  as  wealth?  It  is  the  experience  of  life  that 
it  is  rare  to  keep  either  to  the  end,  but  as  a 
man  is  judged  not  so  much  by  his  ability  to 
make  money  as  to  keep  it,  so  it  is  fair  to  estimate 
his  qualities  by  his  power  to  retain  friendship. 
New  York  is  full  of  failures,  bankrupts  in  fortune 
and  bankrupts  in  affection,  but  this  melancholy 
£93 


THAT    FORTUNE 

aspect  of  the  town  is  on  the  surface,  and  is  not 
to  be  considered  in  comparison  with  the  great 
body  of  moderately  contented,  moderately  suc 
cessful,  and  on  the  whole  happy  households.  In 
this  it  is  a  microcosm  of  the  world. 

To  Evelyn  and  Philip,  judging  the  world  a 
good  deal  by  each  other,  in  those  months  before 
their  marriage,  when  surprising  perfection  and 
new  tenderness  were  daily  developed,  the  gay 
and  busy  city  seemed  a  sort  of  paradise. 

Mysterious  things  were  going  on  in  the  weeks 
immediately  preceding  the  wedding.  There  was 
a  conspiracy  between  Miss  McDonald  and  Philip 
in  the  furnishing  and  setting  in  order  a  tiny 
apartment  on  the  Heights,  overlooking  the  city, 
the  lordly  Hudson,  and  its  romantic  hills.  And 
when,  after  the  ceremony,  on  a  radiant  afternoon 
in  early  June,  the  wedded  lovers  went  to  their 
new  home,  it  was  the  housekeeper,  the  old  gov 
erness,  who  opened  the  door  and  took  into  her 
arms  the  child  she  had  loved  and  lost  awhile. 

This  fragment  of  history  leaves  Philip  Burnett 
on  the  threshold  of  his  career.  Those  who  know 
him  only  by  his  books  may  have  been  interested 
in  his  experiences,  in  the  merciful  interposition 
of  disaster,  before  he  came  into  the  great  fort 
une  of  the  love  of  Evelyn  Mavick. 


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